


Far From What Once Was Home

by oldenuf2nb



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Getting Together, Getting to Know Each Other, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, M/M, Post-War, flangst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-08
Updated: 2019-02-09
Packaged: 2019-10-24 16:55:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 25
Words: 58,374
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17708111
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oldenuf2nb/pseuds/oldenuf2nb
Summary: The war against Voldemort was over, but Harry's battle to become someone more thanthe Boy Who Livedwas just beginning. He disappeared, leaving only a note behind. Now, ten years later Harry has decided it's time to go home.But the world he left has changed and so have his friends...  And Malfoy's a Healer...things really are different.Buckle up - the ride might get bumpy.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a re-post of my 2012 fic written for 25 Days of Draco and Harry for slythindor100 on LJ.
> 
> Prompt for this part  
> 

Harry Potter stood at the window, staring out at the frozen landscape. He’d tried to sleep, but restlessness pushed him from the warmth of his bed. Restlessness born of an ache that was getting harder and harder to ignore.

He could see the big house, the huge lighted tree a beacon in the rear yard near the barn. The rough wooden fence that ran the length of the drive had a single strand of illuminated white lights, and not far from the front door of his small house a lighted wreath with a cheery red bow hung on a fencepost. The six inches of snow they’d got the day before looked other worldly and iridescent, and a hint of dawn teased the sky to a chilly cerulean above the snow dusted mountains. It was usually his favorite time of day, but not so much this time of year. The ranch where he’d worked for the last two seasons closed to visitors in December so the owner could have the place for his extended family, but that left Harry with a lot of time on his hands. Too much.

He braced his palms on the window frame and leaned forward, feeling the cold radiating from the glass brush his bare chest. He’d been having the same dream for the last month, a dream so vivid and haunting it made him hesitant to even attempt sleep. It was about Hogwarts and Dumbledore, and Ron and Hermione and… well, it didn’t take a genius to figure out what it was trying to tell him. His subconscious had apparently decided it was, finally, time to go home.

For the first eight years after he’d left England, he hadn’t felt the pull at all. The aftermath of the war was a nightmarish sequence of funeral after funeral, ceremonial tribute after ceremonial tribute. The bloody newspaper wrote, then re-wrote, then re-wrote again the tales of his ‘triumph over darkness’. He’d loathed every moment of it. The wizarding world wanted to celebrate his victory, heap him with awards, and all he wanted was to crawl off somewhere and sleep for a decade. So many were dead and the survivors who hadn’t lifted a wand wanted to throw a party. It seemed obscene, somehow.

Just as bad were the funerals, so many funerals. Everyone wanted him to speak, to offer words of consolation and wisdom. He didn’t have any. He was an awkward seventeen year old kid, and no one seemed to remember that even though he hadn’t uttered the killing curse, someone had died at his hand. Lord Voldemort was a monster, but Harry couldn’t forget the similarities between himself and the person Tom Riddle had once been. In the dark of night, Helena Ravenclaw’s voice would echo through his thoughts; ‘you’re very like him. Did you know?’

The Death Eater trials were almost as haunting, but Harry forced himself to attend every one. He felt as if he owed it to Remus and Tonks, Mad Eye and Fred, even to Snape. He sat in the front row and the newspaper said ‘our hero was there to see his noble quest through to the very end’. It had made him gag. His actual motivation wasn’t nearly as altruistic; he wanted the bastards to see just who had taken down their supposedly invincible ‘Master’. And he maintained a stoic silence, until time came for the Malfoy family to be tried.

He couldn’t bring himself to speak for Lucius, but Draco hadn’t identified them when they were dragged to the Manor even though Harry knew he recognized him. And without Narcissa Malfoy’s courage, the war would have ended very differently. Harry couldn’t simply ignore what they’d done. He testified, and told the truth; all of it. The snatchers and the manor and dark forest. Lucius was sentenced to life in Azkaban and the Malfoy holdings were seized for reparations, but Narcissa and Draco were freed.

After the verdicts were announced to a stunned wizarding gallery, Harry rose to make his way to the exit. He heard a voice call his name, and turned to find Draco Malfoy standing behind him, his mother near his shoulder.

“Potter, I…” Malfoy looked torn between the desire to say something and an inability to decide what it might be. Harry understood completely.

“Forget it, Malfoy,” he said dismissively. “I owed you.”

Draco shook his head, his face a mask of disbelief. “You’re mental.”

“Draco!” his mother scolded.

For the first time since the end of the war, Harry felt a smile flirting with his lips. “No, it’s all right, Mrs. Malfoy. He’s probably right.” He started to turn away again, but a hand caught his sleeve. He looked back in time to see Malfoy release the fabric as if surprised he’d grabbed it. He swallowed heavily, then thrust out his hand. It was shaking.

Harry stared at it, then lifted his eyes to Malfoy’s face and saw the resolution mingled with fear in his pale eyes. Knowing their history, he found the outstretched hand very brave. All he had to do to humiliate Malfoy completely was walk away, but he didn’t have the stomach for it. Harry hesitated only a moment longer, then caught the cool hand within a firm grip.

Of wizard’s he knew, Harry was the least likely to believe in ‘fate’, or ‘destiny’. Yeah, he’d been ‘destined’ to kill Voldemort, but he thought it had more to do with what everyone else believed than with what had actually been pre-ordained. It could just as easily have been Neville who was stuck with it; Voldemort himself had made the final determination, not fate. But in the moment where his and Malfoy’s palms met, and their fingers curled around one another’s hands, Harry felt something. Something he’d denied to himself all through sixth year when he followed Malfoy around the castle, something that created heated, desperate dreams while they’d been on the run that left Harry hard and ashamed when he wakened. Something that had sent him back to pull Draco from the fire and urged him to his feet during the trial,that brought his eyes to Malfoy’s mouth and was like a hand between his shoulder blades, urging him to lean closer. He saw Malfoy’s lips part, and read his name on them, a startled whisper.

“Harry?”

It was the only time Malfoy had ever said it, and it shocked Harry to his core. He wrenched his hand from the cool grip and stumbled back, eyes skirting around the courtroom, mumbled excuses and apologies spilling from his mouth. He’d got as far as the Atrium before he Apparated into Grimmauld Place, then collapsed on the bottom step of the staircase, shaking, his face in his hands.

He’d wanted to kiss Malfoy. Christ, he’d almost done it, right there in the courtroom, surrounded by dozens of people. He’d wanted it so much he still physically ached with it. He wanted more than to just kiss him; in his mind's eye, like a movie on fast forward, he saw it all. He wanted to have him stretched out, pale and naked, beneath him. He wanted to lick his sharp collar bones, sink his teeth into the tensile tendon down the side of his throat, bury himself inside the slender body. And worst of all, Malfoy knew. Harry saw it in the glimpse of startled eyes as he pulled away and all but ran out of the room, heard it in the soft question in the hesitant voice. He was seventeen years old, queer, and he wanted Malfoy.

It was more than he could handle. Between the expectations of the Wizarding world, his unwanted fame and a soul deep exhaustion he was only beginning to comprehend, the shattering realization pushed him over the edge. All he could think to do was run away, and so he did. He threw a change of clothes into his rucksack, left a vague note for Ron and Hermione who were still in Australia attempting to find her parents, and made a detour to Gringott’s. He withdrew an amount he thought would keep him alive for a few months and had the goblins convert it into pounds, then Apparated to the only non-magical place in England he really knew; Little Whinging.

The Dursley’s small row house was still empty. Using a muttered Alohomora, Harry broke in through the back door. The electricity had been turned off, but enough light filtered in through the uncovered windows that he could make his way through the shadowy house without Lumos. Someone had finally cleaned out his bedroom; now it was just a small, empty space, the bars gone from the one window. He could hear the echo of Hedwig’s soft insistent hoots in the room, and it made his eyes burn. He’d never had time to grieve for her, and now it was like a crushing weight. Staggering down the stairs, he stood in the entry way and looked around vacantly, wondering what in hell he’d hoped to find. Then he caught sight of the door that led to the cupboard beneath the stairs, and he opened it, not expecting to anything to be left there, either.

But the pallet he’d slept on was still there, and his pillow with the ratty pillowcase, and a threadbare blanket Aunt Petunia had grudgingly given him one winter when it had turned bitterly cold. Eyes blurry with tears, he climbed into the cupboard, pulled the door closed behind him, and curled up on the tiny pallet, the blanket wrapped around his shoulders and his rucksack clutched to his chest. He’d been sound asleep before he could contemplate what a psychiatric-healer might make of his morbid stroll down memory lane. When he woke, he knew what he needed to do.

He’d been gone for a decade. There hadn’t been anywhere in wizarding England or Scotland he could go undetected, and so he left the magical world all together. The money he’d withdrawn had been more than enough for him to travel as long as he wasn’t extravagant, and he backpacked through France, Germany, and Spain. He sent Ron and Hermione post cards, but never stayed any place long enough to receive an answer. When he decided to go to America, he stopped sending the notes. Even years after the war, he still felt raw inside and wondered if cutting ties completely might help him heal. It hadn’t.

Somehow, he ended up in Wyoming working cleaning stables at an exclusive dude ranch. The money was lousy but the freedom was just what the Healer ordered, and the small simple house that came with the job was perfect for his needs. Surrounded by horses who expected nothing from him but their daily grain and miles of silence, Harry slowly put to rest most or the ghosts that still haunted him; most of them.

Long, sinewy arms encircled him from behind, a slender, muscled chest pressed against his back and a faintly pointed chin came to rest on his shoulder.

“What are you doing?”

“Just looking at the view,” Harry answered, covering one of the hands that spread on his flat stomach with his palm.

“Is it the same as yesterday?”

The corner of Harry’s mouth quirked. “Pretty much.”

The hand he wasn’t holding slid south, long fingers toying with the black hair beneath his navel. “Come back to bed; I’ll give you something better to look at than the view.”

Harry caught the hand, stilling its descent and turned, looking into the pale blue eyes that studied him quizzically from beneath the spill of pale hair. “Listen,” he said regretfully, linking their fingers. “We need to talk.”

Aaron’s hair wasn’t blond enough and his eyes weren’t grey, but the similarities were still striking. Harry didn’t have any problem guessing what a shrink would make of that.

“That doesn’t sound good,” Aaron murmured. “What’s the matter?”

Harry took a deep breath. “I’m going home.”

A frown creased Aaron’s forehead. “Home? As in…?”

“Home. England.”

Aaron’s eyes brightened. “Oh, cool. I’ve never been anywhere outside the country. I’ll need to get a passport, and you’ll have to help me with airfare, but I can’t wait to see where you grew up. Will I meet your family? That would be so…” His excited chatter finally stalled when he seemed to realize Harry wasn’t contributing to the conversation. He studied his eyes, his face falling. “Oh,” he murmured. “Oh. I… see.”

He pulled away and turned, and Harry stared at the dejected slope of his shoulders.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured, knowing it was probably only the first of many times he’d be saying it over the next month.


	2. Mistaken Identity

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt used for this part:

“Healer Malfoy?”  
  
Draco blinked and straightened. He was very much afraid he’d dozed off, standing next to the mediwitch’s station. “Yes?”  
  
Mediwitch Smithers gave him an indulgent look. “How long have you been here?”  
  
Draco glanced up at the clock on the wall. “Is it five o’clock in the morning, or the evening?”  
  
“Evening.”  
  
“Huh.” He did the calculation in his head. “Thursday or Friday?”  
  
“Friday”  
  
He squinted. “Forty six hours. No, that’s not right… Forty seven, and a half.”  
  
She shook her head. “I’ve never agreed with the practice of having Healer Trainee’s work forty eight hours, straight. It’s cruel, and it encourages errors.”  
  
Draco pulled his shoulders back. “I assure you, Smithers, I’m perfectly capable of seeing to the needs of the patients.”  
  
She looked at him wryly from beneath her brows. “Whatever you say, Healer. Here.” She held out a chart. “New patient in four. Female, two years old, presenting with pain in her right ear. She’s been exhibiting signs of involuntary magic, and her mother is afraid she’s somehow spelled a foreign object into her ear canal.”  
  
Draco sighed and took the chart. “Of course she is.” He flipped it open and studied the pages inside. If he had a galleon for every involuntary magical accident, and every hysterical mother who was sure each ache and pain was some sort of weird magical blip, he could restock the Malfoy coffers in a month. “Hhmm… Patil. That name sounds familiar.” He walked toward the examining room, his eyes scanning the information contained in the file. Child’s name was Ashley, her birthday was May 4, she had begun exhibiting signs of involuntary magic at eight months... His brows arched. That was extremely young. He heard a woman speaking softly behind the dividing curtain and stepped around it, his eyes still lowered.  
  
“So, Miss Ashley…”  
  
“Malfoy?”  
  
The voice was startled into shrillness, and Draco stopped, his head jerking up. A woman stood next to the exam table, her long black hair swinging to her waist, her almond shaped dark eyes wide. She was very pretty, and had a toddler perched on her hip. A lovely little girl with perfect little arched black brows, a bow shaped mouth and large, thickly lashed eyes. Large  _green_  thickly lashed eyes. He’d only ever seen eyes that color once before, and they’d been…  
  
“Malfoy, you’re a Healer?”  
  
He jerked his gaze from the child to the mother.  
  
“Ms….” He searched his mind for the name he’d seen on the chart. “Patil!” He exhaled in a rush. “How are you? Been a long time, hasn’t it?”  
  
Her pretty lips curled. “Very,” she said dryly. “Since when are you a Healer?”  
  
He forced outward calm even as inwardly he bristled. “Since I finish finished medical school with a major in paediatrics.” She glanced down at her daughter then back. “I can see if someone else is free if you feel unable to get past our school days…”  
  
A frown creased her brow. “You majored in paediatrics?”  
  
“I did.” He didn’t provide anything else, merely waited. She looked down at the child again, who was tugging on her right ear, and exhaled.  
  
“She’s been pulling on this ear for two days,” she said in a rush, and Draco felt the tension leave his shoulders. He approached her cautiously.  
  
“Let’s set her down and take a look.” She sat the little girl on the high padded table and Draco went to her, smiling into her upturned face. “Hello. My name is Healer Malfoy. May I take off your very pretty hat?” Her round face dimpled and she ducked her head shyly. “Aw, coy, are we? I’d like to see why your ear hurts, but your hat is in the way.” Her mother reached for the hat, but Draco held up his hand, his eyes still on the child’s pretty face. “Will you take off your hat, or would you like for me to?”  
  
The green eyes lifted toward his, and she bit her plump lower lip. “You.”  
  
Draco’s smile widened. “My pleasure.”  
  
The hat felt like cashmere, and matched a scarf that was wound around her small throat. Her jacket was burgundy wool and expensive looking, as were her patterned tight tights and her shiny black shoes. Apparently, Ms. Patil wasn’t hurting financially. Draco pulled the bright pink hat from her head and a riot of curls spilled over her forehead and around her ears. They were thick and black, and once again his breath caught. Messy black hair and vivid green eyes, and a surprisingly strong magical background at eight months…  
  
“What lovely hair.” He drew his wand and tried to make certain his hand didn’t tremble.  
  
Her mother smiled indulgently. “It’s a mess. Totally uncontrollable. I can’t do a thing with it other than cut it short and hope for the best.” She reached over and teasingly tugged one of the curls. Ashley smiled at her.  
  
“She must take after her father,” Draco said, sounding breathless even though he’d aimed for casual. He sensed rather than saw her stiffen. “I just meant that your hair is so perfectly straight, and as I recall, so is your sister’s.”  
  
It was the right thing to say. Her posture softened, but her expression remained stony. “She’s nothing like her father,” she said, her voice taut. Not a happy separation, then.  
  
He glanced at the child’s chart once again and saw no father listed; the line was blank. That would make sense, he thought, his thoughts tumbling one atop the other. Hadn’t Potter taken one of the Patil twins to the Yule Ball in fourth year? He didn’t know if it was this one, or the other. If Potter was Ashley’s father, and the separation had been antagonistic, Patil might want to keep it a secret. If word of an illegitimate child got out, all hell would break loose and any privacy this little girl or her mother had would be over. And little Ashley looked so much like him… He forced another smile for her. She was now studying him openly.  
  
“I’m going to look in your ear, is that all right?”  
  
Her eyes shifted to her mother and back, and she nodded cautiously.  
  
Draco whispered  _Lumos_  and the tip of his wand lit brightly. He smiled again in what he hoped was a reassuring manner and gently turned the small head, leaning forward. He murmured a spell that would painlessly enlarge the ear canal enough for him to see her ear drum and she looked startled.  
  
“Did that hurt?”  
  
She shook her head. Draco caught the small lobe in his hand and peered into her ear, and immediately saw the problem.  
  
“Well, there isn’t a foreign object in her ear,” he murmured. “Has she had the sniffles in the past few days?”  
  
“She has, but I just thought she was allergic to my mother’s cat. We’re staying with her until Christmas, and she’s always lugging the poor thing about…” Her voice trailed off on a soft sigh. “So, what is it, then? A cold?”  
  
Draco murmured  _Finite Incantatem_  and straightened. “Yes. With an ear infection. It’s still minor, but I’d recommend ear drops for the pain and some oral anti-infection potions.” Sudden inspiration struck, and he looked into the little girl’s wide green eyes. It wasn’t actually unethical; his mentor at University recommended testing blood for all childhood infections when the patient was under five due to the resurgence of Dragon Pox. Or course, she didn’t have any of the symptoms, but still…“If you’re agreeable, we should probably take some blood as well, just to make sure there isn’t any underlying infection. Dragon Pox is going around.”  
  
The Patil woman, (Draco looked at the chart again. Her name was Padma. He seemed to recall that unlike her twin, she’d been in Ravenclaw) looked faintly alarmed. “Will it hurt her?”  
  
Draco tried to reassure her with his smile. “Not a bit.” He withdrew a vial from his lab robe pocket and held it up for the child to see. “May I touch this to your arm?”  
  
She frowned, her lower lip thrust out. Usually that expression on a child’s face irritated him, but he thought she looked adorable.  
  
“It won’t hurt, I promise.” He made a ‘cross my heart’ motion, and she grudgingly held out her arm. He gently pushed up the sleeve of her coat and pressed the vial to her wrist where veins and arteries intersected. He tapped it with his wand and murmured  _Haurio cruento_. The little girl watched in fascination as the vial slowly filled with her dark red blood.  
  
When he was done, Draco capped the tube and withdrew a plaster from his pocket. He pealed peeled the back away and placed it over an almost invisible, tiny wound and shaped like a snitch, it immediately began to beat its tiny wings. Ashley laughed in delight.  
  
“I’ll just go test this,” Draco said to her mother, “and return with the results and the necessary potions. Won’t take me a moment.”  
  
All the way to the small desk the Trainees shared, Draco told himself what he was doing wasn’t unethical. Even though they’d fought a war over the unimportance of blood status, in medicine it did matter; parentage was significant, some diseases were genetic. He couldn’t really effectively treat little Ashley Patil no father’s name unless he knew who she was. Never mind that he was pretty sure she had a cold and nothing more; it  _could_  be something else, there could be an underlying condition. He ignored the little voice that told him he was merely trying to satisfy his own curiosity, and he sat at the desk, levitating the glass tube with his wand. His hand was trembling as he uncapped and tapped the tube, murmuring  _Redico parentis_.  
  
A small lavender mist lifted from the blood, swirling in circular shapes. It began to separate into a soft rose and a dark purple. The rose formed letters first, and they read Padma Elishia Patil. Draco bit his lower lip as the purple took longer to form letters. He held his breath, a trembling in his core, as letters slowly began to take shape.  
  
“Benjamin Michael St. Martin,” the letters finally read, and Draco exhaled in a rush.  
  
‘It wasn’t Potter’, was all he could think. The little girl wasn’t Potter’s. He couldn’t explain the rush of relief mingled with disappointment he felt, because it made no sense. Why it should matter to him, he couldn’t explain. But it did, it mattered very much. Draco pressed his hand to a stomach that had been tied in knots since he’d seen the little girls green eyes, and waved his wand, dissipating the names. Absently, he ran the tests for infection and Dragon Pox, and waited for the results to appear, his eyes fixed unseeing across the office.  
  
There hadn’t been a hint of where Potter disappeared to in the last five years. Apparently, even Weaslebee and Granger didn’t know where he was; at least, that was what the  _Daily Prophet_  reported. For a moment, he’d thought if the child was his, then the Parvati bint might at least be able to tell him… What? Where Potter was? As if it was any of his business. An intense gaze shared in a crowded courtroom and heat between palms didn’t entitle him to information no one else had.  
  
He sighed heavily, his eyes going back to the test results. Ashley Marie Patil St. Martin had a cold. He pushed back from the desk, rising wearily to go order the necessary potions.


	3. The Man In Black

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt for this part:

Harry was exhausted. He’d boarded a plane in Butte, Montana at six forty five in the evening, and it was now seven p.m. in London the following day. Deducting seven hours worth of layovers in Salt Lake City and New York meant he’d been in an airplane for the better part of seventeen hours. He considered buying a first class berth, which would have given him more leg room, but the idea of dropping fifty one hundred pounds for a plane ticket rankled. It was already twelve hundred pounds, which was bad enough. And even though he felt a heady wave of nostalgia hearing the sounds of the myriad English accents all around him for the first time in five years, by the time he made it through the airport the idea of cramming onto the Tube with several hundred of his countrymen held no appeal whatsoever. He went outside and hailed a cab.  
  
Aaron didn't handle his decision to leave very well. They hadn’t been together long, only about four months, and Harry  never made any promises. If anything, he did the exact opposite, cautioning him not to get too attached. But he was afraid the other man had feelings for him that he didn’t reciprocate.  
  
“You know I’m in love with you,” Aaron said the morning Harry left, still sitting naked in the middle of the tangled bed sheets. Harry had already showered and was shoving the few things he intended to take with him into a rucksack. It was a three hour drive from the ranch to the airport in Butte, and his boss planned to combine Harry’s ride with a trip in to pick up family members. Their plane arrived at noon; Harry had perhaps ten minutes before he had to walk out the door.  
  
He closed his eyes for a moment, then resumed packing, shaking his head. “I told you not to do that, Aaron.”  
  
“Like I could control it? God, Harry, why can’t I go with you?”  
  
Harry zipped the rucksack closed and straightened, turning. There was no kind way to do this; no good way. He met Aaron’s blue eyes with a steady gaze.  
  
“Because I don’t want you to.” He saw Aaron flinch, and forced himself to keep his eyes level and his voice steady. “I like you, Aaron. But I never pretended this was anything other than what it was.”  
  
“A convenient fuck.” Aaron threw the blankets back and stood, grabbing his jeans off the floor and stepping into them, yanking them up over his bare hips.  
  
Harry didn’t speak; there wasn’t any point in denying what was, in essence, true. Aaron scooped his sweatshirt off of the chair near the desk in the corner and pulled it on over his head, his fair hair falling over his forehead. He shoved it back with a hand that shook.  
  
“Well, I hope whatever you’re suddenly going back for is worth it,” he snarled, sitting on the edge of the bed to yank on his work boots. “Just don’t come crawling back, looking for me, if it isn’t.”  
  
“I won’t.”  
  
Aaron glared at him, then grabbed his heavy jacket from a peg on the wall and stalked to the door. He paused with his hand on the knob.  
  
“You’re a cold-blooded prick, you know that?”  
  
Harry sighed. “I imagine you think so.”  
  
“Oh, fuck you, Harry.”  
  
He jerked the door open, then slammed it violently behind him.  
  
The encounter left Harry feeling unsettled all of the way to Salt Lake City. By then, he was ready for a drink and spent the two hour lay-over in a bar.  
  
He’d always known Aaron wasn’t something permanent; he couldn’t be. Harry didn’t have those kinds of feelings for him. And he’d been honest about it from the beginning. He’d never been  _in love_  with anyone, and had told Aaron that. Funny how the knowledge he’d told the truth didn't make him feel any better.  
  
The cab pulled to a stop at the corner across from Harrod’s, which was festively lit from the sidewalk to the top of the ornate spires, and Harry told the driver he’d get out there. He paid what he thought was an obscene rate, then stepped out onto the crowded, windswept sidewalk, shoving his hands into the pockets of his black hoodie.  
  
He’d considered going to Grimmauld Place. He still owned it, but as far as he knew no one had been in it in years; Kreacher was still at Hogwarts last Harry heard, and the idea of being alone in the decrepit old place held no appeal whatsoever. And he thought about going to the Burrow, but part of him was afraid of what his reception would be. He hadn’t seen Arthur and Molly since right after Fred’s funeral, and believed they’d be justified if they slammed the door in his face. The first people he had to see were Ron and Hermione, but realized with a sinking heart he had absolutely no idea where they lived. Ron went into the Auror program like they’d both planned, and Hermione had gone to university. But since then? He had no idea where they were. He’d been mulling it over on the plane when it hit him; the shop the twins opened in Diagon Alley. He’d start there.  
  
He pushed his way through the crowd on the sidewalk, taking in the sights and the smells of London. He’d been gone so long and living in a place where his nearest neighbor was nearly half a mile away and silence took on a whole new meaning, that it wasn’t long before he was experiencing sensory overload. By the time he made the turn onto the darkened street that led to The Leaky Cauldron, he was tired of being jostled and his head ached. But when he saw the familiar sign over the dingy door rocking faintly in the chill breeze, the silhouette of the witch stirring a cauldron with a cat at her feet, he felt his fatigue and anxiety begin to lift and the corner of his mouth quirked up in a slight smile.  
  
‘Home,’ he thought, his spirits lifting. Finally, he was coming home.  
  
He had changed into black jeans and the black hoodie in the men’s at the airport, hoping the dark color would help him to pass through the dimly lit pub unnoticed. He’d left his dad’s invisibility cloak in his school trunk at Grimmauld when he’d taken off; the only magical thing he’d kept with him was his wand and it had been so long since he’d used it he wasn’t sure he could even manage a basic glamour. Pulling up the hood and yanking it forward to hide as much of his face as possible, he could only hope the bar was busy enough he could slip through undetected. Taking a deep breath, he opened the door.  
  


~***~

  
  
“Next rounds on Mufloy!”  
  
Hearty, inebriated cheers filled the overcrowded corner booth at The Leaky.  
  
“What? Why?” Draco complained.  
  
“Because you, my friend,” Darrell Pepper said, his words slurred, “are the first of us to make Healer Burrows look as if he’s ‘bout to burst an aneurysm.”  
  
Draco rolled his eyes. “Is it my fault he got the diagnosis on that child wrong?”  
  
“Absolutely not!” his fellow trainee, Cynthia Freeley said steadfastly.  
  
Darrell leaned toward her. “I keep telling you, Cyn. You don’t have to agree with ever’thing Mufloy says. He doesn’ wan in yer pants. He likes  _boys._ ”  
  
Raucous laughter met his comment, and Draco flipped him two fingers.  
  
“Ah, but it was lovely, watching his face turn purple like that,” another trainee, Suzanne Farrow said wistfully. “I thought he was going to have a stroke.”  
  
“It would serve him right, the self-important egotistical arse. If he’d given that boy the potion he ordered, he’d have sent him into cardiac arrest.”  
  
“And another reason Mufloy should buy!” Darrell shouted. Draco arched a brow at him. “For being the only one among us who can still say self-‘mporant, egoissicll arsh.”  
  
“You don’t need any more, Pepper.”  
  
“Aw, don’ be a kill joy, Mufloy. Tomorrow is my firs day off in a month. I deserve to get pissed.”  
  
“I’d say you’re there, but it’s your head.”  
  
Draco raised his hand and gestured across the crowded bar for another round, and was turning back when his attention was caught by what looked like a shadow moving stealthily along the wall. He frowned and squinted through the smoke, and realized it wasn’t a shadow but the lithe figure of a man dressed all black. Draco couldn’t say what it was about him that caught his eye, whether it was the width of his shoulders or his narrow hips, but he found himself staring, his pulse beginning to race and his palms growing damp. The man headed directly for the rear of the pub, clearly going to the Diagon Alley exit, and just before he went out through the back door, he turned his head slightly to the side. Draco held his breath, waiting for the profile to come into view…  
  
“Mufloy, you order those drinks?” Pepper’s head swam into his line of vision and his arm dropped heavily around his shoulders. “’cuz I’m parched, Mate.”  
  
Draco tried to maneuver his head to the side, but by the time he once again had a clear view of the door, the man was gone.  
  
“What’s the matter, Draco?” He turned his head to find Cynthia watching him, a crease between her brows. “You’re suddenly white as a sheet.”  
  
Darrell snorted. “How can you tell the dif’rence?”  
  
“Oh, do fuck off, Pepper,” she snapped.  
  
Draco scowled at him and forgot about the man in black as their drinks arrived.


	4. Father Christmas

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt for this part: 

Diagon Alley was teeming with Christmas Shoppers, bustling through the evening chill. Between the regular shops were parked carts of Christmas treats; pumpkin pasties and roasting chestnuts. The scent filled the air, along with the smell of cinnamon and baking bread and spiced cider. Most of the old business’ had been rebuilt, but in the spaces where they hadn’t, open air stalls were erected for the holiday season. Prominently displayed were fancy quills or colorful candies, and in one Harry passed there were wooden toys that hovered and marched and spun. He smiled when he saw them.  
  
The enchanted entrance to the alley had opened for him just as it had the first time Hagrid tapped the bricks, and from the moment he’d been able to see down the alley, all of the wonder he’d first felt sixteen years before came rushing back. He even felt the magic. It was so strong, so tangible it was like fingers brushing his exposed face, a benevolent spirit welcoming his return. His fatigue melted away, and he paused and took a deep breath, his eyes closed, and felt the magic rush into his lungs. He didn’t remember being as aware of the feeling when he was eleven, but then, he’d been so awestruck at eleven he could hardly remember to breathe at all.  
  
Kids rushed past him, bumping him as they darted by, and he smiled at their excitement. Their mother’s weren’t far behind, witches in full length robes, shouting for them to wait, but they were fighting a losing battle. Much as Molly Weasley had all those years ago, trying to run herd on the twins and Ron and Ginny, with their two honorary siblings in tow. They’d given her a merry chase, and he wondered now how she’d managed. A healthy dose of fear, he supposed, recalling her howlers. He grinned and thrust his hands into his pockets, picking up the pace as he neared Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes. He didn’t know what to expect when he arrived; if George was even still working there or not, or if he’d be willing to tell Harry where Ron was. He was afraid there would be understandable bad feelings. Well, he thought, squaring his shoulders. Only one way to find out.  
  
When he rounded the corner that lead to WWW, he stopped dead in his tracks, staring. The place had been something special when they visited before sixth year. But now?  
  
“Holy shit,” he muttered, staring at the four story wonder that now took up half a block. A woman passing gave him a quelling glare, but he didn’t even see it. He was too busy trying to take in what he was seeing.  
  
The enormous smiling Weasley with the top hat that lifted to reveal a rabbit had been replaced with a screen that was as tall as the building. Over and over on a continuous loop was the scene of Fred and George’s triumphant departure from Hogwarts, including the fire breathing dragon and the exploding ‘W’ in mid air. He had no idea how they’d managed it, but there was even a shot of Umbridge with her hair smoking, and Harry laughed aloud. Around the screen like a live action frame were their inventions; on one side a telescope punched an unsuspecting student wearing Slytherin robes in the eye, on the other a girl wearing Hufflepuff colors swooned holding a bottle of love potion with animated hearts that floated from the open top. There was a boy eating canary creams and turning into a giant bird, and another whose tongue rolled out of his mouth like a magic carpet. Along the bottom an animated wizard waved his wand, and a swamp, complete with hanging moss and alligators appeared. Moments later a little Argus Filch in a small launch passed, ferrying a boat full of Hogwarts students and shaking his fist, and Harry laughed aloud again.  
  
“Brilliant,” he said, starting across the street. “Bloody brilliant.”  
  
Stepping inside was like entering a funhouse; the noise level alone was unbelievable. Pings and dings and knocks and blasts. For a moment he winced and was tempted to cover his ears with his hands. Kids were everywhere, on every level, laughing, calling to each other, holding up a pygmy puff or a flying action figure that looked like Viktor Krum. They all looked so happy, Harry thought. So carefree. These were the faces of children who had never been touched by war, who had been so young, most of them, they didn’t remember what it felt like to live under Voldemort’s threat. And he was glad as he watched them.  
  
He made his way toward the back of the enormous store. A couple of teenage girls tracked him with their eyes and nudged each other, and he was afraid for a moment he’d been recognized. But when they saw him looking and giggled, their faces blushing, he realized they weren’t seeing ‘Harry Potter’ at all. He knew he’d changed; he’d grown a couple of inches after he turned eighteen, and his body was different. He’d spent the last eight years doing mostly manual labor, and it showed in his shoulders and his chest. He wasn’t vain, but it was nice to turn heads for something other than the scar on his forehead.  
  
There were lines stretching back into the store when he arrived at the cash registers, and their constant ringing and the happy chatter were accompanied by a Father Christmas in the corner calling out a jolly ‘ho ho ho, happy Christmas!’ as he handed out candy to little ones. Harry searched the faces behind the registers for several seconds, looking for George, but the remaining twin was nowhere to be seen. He was about to turn to head up to the other floors when he felt a hand encircle his right arm above the elbow, and he stiffened.  
  
“Excuse me, young man, but are you lost?”  
  
He turned and found himself eye to eye with Bill Weasley. His hair was no longer long and his face still bore faint scars, but his blue eyes were shining and his mouth was curved up in a welcoming smile.  
  
“Bill!” Harry said in surprise, startled when Bill pulled him into a hard hug.  
  
They embraced enthusiastically, patting each other on the back and laughing, then Bill held him back at arms length and studied him.  
  
“Our Harry’s all grown up,” he said. “No longer a scrawny, speccy git, I see.”  
  
“Still speccy.” Harry grinned. “Hard to stay scrawny when you shovel horse shit eight hours a day.”  
  
Bill’s eyes widened. “There’s a story in that statement, I’m sure.”  
  
Harry laughed. “Several, actually. I’ll have to tell you them over a pint or two.”  
  
“I’d like that.” Bill’s smile faded slightly. “Harry, where’ve you been? No one’s heard anything from you in…”  
  
“Five years,” Harry supplied. “I know. I just…” He shrugged, not sure what to say. “I wasn’t right, Bill,” he said finally. “Not for a long time.”  
  
Bill nodded, rubbing the scars on his face. Harry doubted he even knew he was doing it. “Are you… better?”  
  
Harry nodded. “Yeah, I am, I think. Finally. How are you, and Fleur?”  
  
Bill smiled. “She’s amazing. Still putting up with me and my raw meat weirdness.” Unmistakable pride entered his face. “And carrying our third.”  
  
“That’s great. I’m glad for you, Bill.” Harry said, gripping Bill’s arm. He glanced around. “I was kind of hoping to see George…”  
  
“He’s not here. He opened an orphanage in Freddie’s name after the war. During December he spends a lot of time there.”  
  
Harry instantly sobered. “What a great thing for him to do.”  
  
“He needed something,” Bill said. “He wasn’t ‘right’, either. We worried about him for a long time.”  
  
Harry grimaced. “He started an orphanage, and I ran away from home.”  
  
Bill reached out and squeezed Harry’s shoulder. “We understood no one knew what you’d been through, Harry. Not even Hermione and Ron, though they’d been the closest to you.”  
  
Harry wasn’t sure he deserved the easy absolution, but he took it. “Speaking of Ron and Hermione, I don’t want a lot of other people to know I’m back until I’ve seen them, Bill,” he said earnestly. “I don’t want someone else telling them they’ve seen me. I feel like I owe them that, at least.”  
  
“I think that can be managed.” A twinkle had entered his blue eyes.  
  
“Do you know where I can find them?” Harry asked, leaning forward. “Last I heard they were looking for Hermione’s parents, but I know that can’t still be the case.”  
  
“Oh, no. The good dentist and his wife were found safe and sound, and our little Ronnikins is no longer living with Mum. But I think I’ll let him tell you about that.”  
  
Bill grabbed Harry’s shoulders and forcefully turned him.  
  
“Bill, what…?”  
  
“Just close your mouth and open your eyes, Harry,” he said next to his ear. “It’ll all come clear for you in a mo, here.”  
  
Harry subsided under his hands looking toward the corner of the store. All he saw was the Father Christmas, holding court with at least a dozen young admirer’s. He let out another jolly chuckle and handed out a candy cane, and that was when Harry noticed the freckles between the end of his fur lined sleeve and the beginning of his green velvet glove, and he stiffened. He peered at the jolly old elf and realized the beard and hair were a glamour, and the stomach was lumpy padding, but the long nose and the blue eyes behind half moon spectacles belonged to Ron.  
  
He took a stumbling step forward, then another, then stopped. The children were all clamoring for candy and attention, and Ron was laughing when he glanced up in Harry’s direction. The smile froze on his face and they stared at one another for what felt like a very long time.  
  
Finally, Harry saw Ron’s lips soundlessly form his name, and the blue eyes brightened with tears. He moved through the children, who stepped aside as if even they realized something momentous was happening, and Harry felt himself engulfed in a hug so tight he worried for his ribs.  
  
“It’s about goddamned time, you self-centered son of a bitch,” Ron choked out next to his ear, and Harry laughed through tears of his own.  
  


~***~

  
  
As he struggled through the crowds in Diagon Alley under Darrell Pepper’s drunken weight, Draco swore to himself he would never, ever go drinking with the fucking light weight ever again. Particularly not if he was the one who ended up having to see the obnoxious arse home. He lived down the block from the Weasley eyesore and up the stairs on the second floor, and Draco dreaded trying to drag his nearly unconscious co-worker up to his seedy flat.  
  
They were passing the huge picture windows that looked directly into the Weasley establishment went Draco felt an odd, prickling sensation between his shoulder blades. He knew he’d had more to drink than he usually did, but that didn’t account for it. He shrugged his shoulders uncomfortably.  
  
“Lay off, Mufloy,” Pepper slurred. “’M havin nuf trouble holding onta you ashit is…”  
  
“Oh, do shut up, Pepper,” Draco growled, pausing to readjust the man’s weight. He glanced through the windows and froze, an odd sort of rushing sound in his ears.  
  
Inside the window, the man he’d glimpsed in the Leaky Cauldron was being embraced enthusiastically by Father Christmas.  
  
Draco blinked. He still couldn’t see his face; it was hidden by bushy beard and a red velvet hat. For one mad moment it seemed important enough for him to know who it was he considered dropping Pepper on his arse in the middle of the street, and going in to find out.  
  
“Oh, Mufloy,” Pepper abruptly groaned. It was all the warning Draco got before Pepper was spectacularly ill all over his feet.  
  
By the time an infuriated Draco had banished the sick from his shoes and Pepper had mumbled his apologies, both the man in black and Father Christmas were gone.


	5. Confessions Among Friends

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt for this part:

“So, is she going to speak to me?”  
  
Harry and Ron walked from the Apparition point through a quiet, charming neighborhood on the outskirts of Ottery St. Catchpole. Apparating had been as disconcerting and nauseating as Harry remembered, but fortunately Ron’s skills had improved. They arrived with all of their parts intact.  
  
Ron hummed, slipping his hands into the pockets of his overcoat as they walked. His red hair was restored and the Santa padding was gone, and Harry could see that the years had been good to him. Ron looked happy and healthy, a man firmly in charge of his life and secure in it. Harry envied him that.  
  
“Well, Mate, you remember how she is, yeah?”  
  
Harry sighed softly. “Yeah.”  
  
“Although, she never did get nearly as irritated at you as she did at me, so there’s that.”  
  
“But you didn’t disappear for five years, either.”  
  
“No, but my timing was worse.” Ron shot him a quick look. “And it was more like ten, if you’re counting, Mate. We left for Australia and were gone for three months, and when we got back,  _you_  were gone. We got a few post cards and then… nothing. For five years.”  
  
Harry grimaced, guilt making him feel squirmy inside. “I know. I was a coward.”  
  
“You? I might have called you a lot of things, Harry, but never that.”  
  
Harry shook his head. “You don’t know the details.”  
  
Ron frowned at him. “Care to clear that up a bit?”  
  
Harry took and exhaled a deep breath. “I will, Ron, I promise. I’d just as soon only do it once, if it’s all the same to you.”  
  
“Sure.” He paused before a gate in the middle of a white picket fence and leaned over to push it open, and Harry looked up the narrow walkway to the charming two story house that sat back from the street.  
  
It was newer than most in the neighborhood, and had a bright red door and hunter green shutters on the windows on both floors. Christmas lights trimmed the roof line and twinkled around the windows, and a slender stream of smoke lifted from the fireplace into the night sky.  
  
“This is great, Ron,” Harry said, smiling as he followed him up the walkway.  
  
“Yeah, well, it’s all Hermione’s doing.” Ron paused by the door, waiting for Harry to catch up. “She’s the decorator, not me. Well, her and Dad. Any excuse for him to hang Muggle lights is a good one. Though Mum about had a fit every time he climbed the ladder.”  
  
Harry could imagine Molly’s vocal displeasure, and grinned.  
  
Ron opened the front door, and Harry felt nerves skirt along his spine. Seeing Ron in WWW had caught him off guard, but he’d had time to worry about Hermione’s reaction, and he did in fact remember how she could be. Figuring he probably deserved whatever she had to say to him, he hunched his shoulders and followed Ron in through the front door.  
  
“Hermione? I’m home!” Ron shouted, shrugging his heavy outer robes from his shoulders and hanging them on a coat rack in the entryway. Harry had a fleeting glimpse of honey colored hardwood floors dotted with rag rugs and an antique sideboard with a mirror hanging over it just inside the door to the left. The house smelled of cinnamon and sugar and something baking.  
  
“Ron, hush!” Harry heard Hermione’s voice coming from the other room, softened to a stage whisper, and he straightened. He heard rapid footfalls on the wood floors and held his breath. “The girls are asleep in the living room and…”  
  
She rounded the corner, hair pulled up in a messy bun, wearing an apron with a Christmas tree on the front and a smudge of flour on her cheek. She saw Ron, then looked expectantly past his shoulder.  
  
“Oh, I’m sorry.” She pushed at a loose curl with the back of one flour coated hand. “I didn’t realize…” Her voice died in her throat as Harry stepped around Ron, his hands shoved nervously in his pockets.  
  
“Hey, Hermione.”  
  
She looked at him, her mouth open, color leaching from her cheeks. They stared into one another’s eyes for several seconds, and then she turned on her heal and briskly strode away. Moments later, somewhere deep in the house, a door slammed.  
  
Harry winced.  
  
“Sorry, Mate,” Ron said, his hand dropping heavily onto his shoulder. “She’s just startled, is all.”  
  
“No, it’s okay,” Harry said with a sigh. “Honestly, I think I ought to be grateful she didn’t hit me.”  
  
Ron laughed softly. “As I recall, she  _did_  hit me when I came back, didn’t she?”  
  
Heart heavy, Harry gestured toward the front door. “I should probably go…”  
  
“Don’t be daft,” Ron said gruffly. “She’ll come around in a bit, and if you’re gone, than I have to deal with her. Come on, let me buy you a beer.”  
  
“You sure?” Harry glanced in the direction she’d gone.  
  
“Yeah. Come on.”  
  
They started for the door to the darkened dining room when something Hermione said returned to Harry, and he reached out and caught Ron’s sleeve, stopping him. “The  _girls_  are asleep?”  
  
Ron’s eyes brightened. He changed direction and walked to another, wider doorway, a soft smile lighting his face when he looked around the doorframe. He turned to Harry and gestured him over, holding one finger in front of his lips. Harry went to him and paused at his elbow, looking into the room.  
  
A fire burned merrily in the fireplace, and a lavishly decorate Christmas tree stood in the far corner, but that wasn’t what caught Harry’s attention. First was the portrait of Hermione that sat on the mantle, taken in a wedding dress. And second was the two little girls sound asleep on the floor, heads on ruffled pillows and wrapped in a single down comforter. One had a head full of red curls and the other was sucking her thumb and had long dark brown hair.  
  
“You got married,” Harry murmured. He shouldn’t have been surprised, but he was. And felt a bit sick. He hadn’t been there.  
  
“Well, we sort of had to, Mate,” Ron whispered back, his eyes still on the children. “See the little princess with the red curls? That would be your god-daughter, Rose Victoria Weasley. She was on her way. It was about the only way I could get my wife to make an honest man of me.”  
  
Harry’s throat felt thick. “My god-daughter?” he managed. “Jesus, Ron.”  
  
“Nah, he was already booked.” Harry gave him a wry look, and Ron just smiled. “Honestly, Harry; who else would I have wanted?”  
  
“I haven’t done a very good job being Teddy Lupin’s godfather.” Harry looked back at the sleeping girls.  
  
“You’ll do better, now you’re back.”  
  
Harry nodded, vowing then and there that he would, indeed. “Who is the other little girl?”  
  
There was an awkward silence, and Harry looked over to find Ron scratching his chin, looking uncomfortable. “Well, that would be Gin’s daughter, Harry. Alice.”  
  
“Oh.” Harry blinked. “Wait. Alice. As in…?”  
  
“Longbottom, yeah. She and Neville got married before Hermione and I did.” Ron grabbed his shoulder, as if he thought he needed reassurance, before going on quickly. “The two of you had broken up, Harry, and she and Nev got close during that last year at Hogwarts. And then you were gone, and…”  
  
“Ron, it’s okay,” Harry assured him. “I’m glad she’s happy. And Neville always was a better man than I am.”  
  
Ron frowned. “I don’t know about that.”  
  
“I do,” Harry said emphatically. “Now, you said something about a beer?”  
  
Ron studied his face for a long moment, apparently searching to make sure he meant what he said, then turned and led the way through the dining room.  
  


~***~

  
  
“You, working at a dude ranch?” Ron laughed. “That I’d have liked to see.”  
  
“No one shovels shit any better.” Harry saluted him with the beer bottle and took a long pull, finishing it off.  
  
“How did you end up doing that?”  
  
Harry set his empty bottle on the top of Ron and Hermione’s kitchen table. “Well, there isn’t a lot of call for Auror’s in the Muggle U.S. And I’d done my time flipping burgers and doing dishes. Plus, I liked the location. Not many places more beautiful than Montana, Mate.”  
  
“But you? Surrounded by cowboys?”  
  
Harry stuck out his leg and hiked up his pant leg, showing Ron the black cowboy boots he wore. They’d set him back two hundred dollars, but he’d thought they were worth it.  
  
“Wicked!” Ron breathed. “So, do you ride?”  
  
“Not as smooth as a broom and a whole lot smellier, but better than walking when you’re covering several hundred acres.”  
  
Ron shook his head. “You, on a horse.”  
  
“Not that different than a thestral.”  
  
Ron shuddered. “Finally got a look at one of those, you know, after. Ugly.” He took a drink of his beer.  
  
“Yeah.” Harry fiddled with the label on his beer bottle, picking at it with his thumbnail. “I really am sorry I missed your wedding, Ron.”  
  
“It’s all right.” Ron shrugged.  
  
“Don’t tell him that.”  
  
Both men looked up to find Hermione standing in the doorway, festive apron and smudge of flour both gone. She still looked pale, her eyes red-rimmed, and her arms were crossed tight across her chest.  
  
“Hermione,” Ron muttered, beseeching.  
  
“No, Ronald. No. Because it isn’t all right he missed our wedding. And it isn’t all right he wasn’t here when Rose was born.” She pinned Harry with a hard, hurt look. “It was entirely his idea to make you her godfather. I was ready to choose Neville.”  
  
The words hurt, but Harry didn’t wince. “I wouldn’t have blamed you if you had.”  
  
Her eyes narrowed. “Don’t you dare be reasonable with me, Harry Potter.”  
  
“Well what in blazes do you want the man to say, Hermione?” Ron asked, exasperated.  
  
“I want him to explain to me where he’s been!” she shot back, sounding stung. “I want to know why he disappeared. I want to know what we did to deserve his just… cutting off all contact with us!”  
  
“You didn’t do anything, Hermione. It wasn’t you.”  
  
“No, it was  _you_ ,” she said sharply. “You wait until we were out of the country and then you just hare off for no reason…”  
  
“I’m sure there was a reason.” Ron said, and it struck Harry how much had changed when Ron was playing peacemaker.  
  
“What possible reason could there be?” Hermione demanded.  
  
“Hermione,” Harry said, rising to his feet. “Do you honestly believe I left and there was no reason?”  
  
She lifted her chin at a stubborn angle. “What reason?”  
  
Harry sighed. “Will you at least sit down, maybe have a glass of wine or something?”  
  
She huffed, then crossed to the table and yanked out a chair, plopping into it, her arms immediately crossing tightly once again.  
  
“Charming, you are,” Ron muttered. She gave him a hard look when he stood and went to the refrigerator, returning with another bottle of beer. He popped the top and set it in front of her, then reclaimed his chair.  
  
Harry sat again as well, raking his hands through his hair. “Where to start?”  
  
“Why don’t you try with where you skipped the country without a word?” Hermione said waspishly.  
  
“Why don’t you try to cut the man a break and let him talk?” Ron said darkly. Hermione looked as if she might retort, but didn’t at the hard look in her husband’s eyes. She stared back at Harry, instead.  
  
“You broke Ginny’s heart, you know.”  
  
Harry flinched.  
  
“Oh, he did not.” Ron scowled. “Mum might’ve been disappointed, and you were, but Ginny had already settled on Neville.”  
  
“Ginny loved Harry,” Hermione said stalwartly. “And…”  
  
“And I loved her,” Harry interrupted before she could go on. “Just not the way I needed to.”  
  
“Not… what does that even mean?” Hermione frowned.  
  
Harry took a deep breath.  
  
Here it was. He wasn’t ashamed of who he was any longer. And he’d been open about it for a long time. But this was what drove him away to begin with, at least partly, and he’d never imagined himself sitting at Ron and Hermione’s kitchen table and just – saying it. Well, no time like the present.  
  
“Hermione, Ginny and I were never going to get married,” he said finally. “I’m gay.”  
  
Hermione looked as if he’d struck her. Her mouth opened and closed several times, and then she blinked before picking up her beer bottle and taking a large gulp.  
  
Harry chanced a glance at Ron, and he couldn’t help but notice that Ron didn’t look nearly as startled as his wife did. After a moment, Ron pushed his chair back and got up, crossing to the refrigerator and returning with two more bottles of beer. He uncapped them, and clinked his against the neck of Harry’s.  
  
“To you, Harry,” he said, blue eyes shining. “The only man I’ve ever known, including myself, I might add, who could effectively silence her, mid rant.”  
  
Harry couldn’t help his slight grin. “All it took was a confession of homosexuality.”  
  
Ron laughed.


	6. Frozen Stiff

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt for this part:

Draco was all but staggering as he made his way up the narrow staircase in his dingy apartment building. It was nearly two in the morning, and he was returning after a twelve hour shift. He’d picked it up to help out another trainee who had to go out of town on a family emergency. Several of the members of his rotation had split it up so no one worked more than twelve, but it was a chunk of time in the middle of his three days off. All he could think about now was tea, then bed, then back up again at six the next day to start another forty eight hour rotation. Sometimes trying to be a decent human being was more trouble than it was worth.  
  
He struggled for a moment with the lock but finally managed to get the door open. Living in a Muggle building, he’d already had a neighbor walk unexpectedly out of their door while he was performing  _Alohomora_. He’d managed to pocket his wand and hoped he’d covered the blue glow around the lock with his hand, but he hadn’t attempted it again. The manager of the building already hated him, and muttered ‘poufter’ every time he passed. Draco was pretty sure the burly cockney-accented arsehole was only looking for an excuse to beat the shit out of him; the last thing he needed was other tenants complaining about ‘weirdness’.  
  
His sitting room was dark and cold, and he tossed an  _Incendio_  into the fireplace. Its soft light helped to reveal the hard wood floors without showing the details of how scarred they were and lit the edges of his furniture without illuminating its sheer ugliness. Most of it had been purchased at cheap second hand stalls and was arguably no longer serviceable, but at least the place wasn’t empty. The only real selling point of the flat was its proximity to St. Mungo’s, and the fact the fireplace helped keep down his heating costs.  
  
He kicked a small stack of post across the floor before he noticed it, cursed, then bent and collected it before he nudged the door closed with his heel. The first three pieces were bills, but the fourth was a heavy envelope addressed in distinctive, feminine script. He smiled, dropped the rest on the counter between the sitting room and the kitchen, and slipped his thumb beneath the flap to pry the envelope open.  
  
When he pulled out the glossy card, he looked at the front and snorted, rolling his eyes.  
  
“You mad cow,” he muttered, looking at the image on the card. Depicted was a beautifully built young man with dark hair, hands crossed over his groin, eyes coyly downcast. He was also wearing a large pair of heavy carved gold wings that would have fit in perfectly on the proscenium arch of the Paris Opera House. “Subtle, Pans.”  
  
He opened the card and turned it so that he could read the inscription in the flickering light of the fire.  
  
 _Merry Christmas, Darling_  Pansy Parkinson had written,

> _I saw this and immediately thought of you. To me it seemed to feed perfectly into your ongoing ‘dark haired boy who saved us all’ fixation, even though the bastard’s been missing for a decade. Do you suppose Potter has turned out looking anything like this heroic? Well, I ASSUME it’s heroic, although those hands do sort of hide the details. I can only hope wonder boy, wherever he is, does a better job of trimming his bush._
> 
> Much Love and I’ll see you on the fifteenth!
> 
> Pansy

  
  
Draco glared at the words, thinking he should immediately throw the bloody thing in the garbage.  
  
Several minutes later, when he’d changed out of his scrubs and was making himself a pot of tea, he slipped it under a magnet a previous tenant had left behind, affixing it to the refrigerator door.  
  


~***~

  
  
“How long have you known?”  
  
Hermione leaned across the table, grabbing a chip from a basket in front of Harry and popping it into her mouth. He playfully batted at her fingers, and she gave him a victorious smirk.  
  
The air had thawed pretty quickly after his startling announcement. Hermione being Hermione, she first felt badly for judging him, then wanted to assure herself that he was all right and had been ‘safe’, which was an embarrassing conversation in itself he hoped never to repeat, ever again. Particularly the ‘do you top or bottom’ portion. She nodded in interest when he tried to explain it wasn’t quite as cut and dried as that, that it depended on the partner, while Ron hid an amused grin behind the greasy fish they’d owl ordered.  
  
“Not sure how long,” Harry answered, wiping his mouth and sitting back in his chair.  
  
“You didn’t have a clue when you were younger?”  
  
He shook his head. “I really don’t think I did. I mean, I’ve always admired a good looking bloke, I suppose, but I had more on my mind than getting laid. And you know how it is in the Muggle world, Hermione.”  
  
She nodded grimly. “Not nearly as accepting as in the wizarding, yes. I can only imagine what your uncle had to say about gays.”  
  
Harry grimaced. “Yeah. It was just one more area where I didn’t need to be a freak, thanks so much.”  
  
“You don’t feel that way, do you?” Hermione caught his hand and squeezed it. “Because you aren’t you know. Not at all.”  
  
He appreciated her defense, and squeezed her hand in return. “No, I don’t feel like a freak. At least, not anymore. Once you realize how many people there are who are just like you, it takes some of the sting out of it.”  
  
She looked him up and down pointedly. “I’ll bet you’re very popular.”  
  
“Oi, Hermione,” Ron complained. “Please stop checking him out.”  
  
She rolled her eyes. “I’m not checking him out, at least not the way you mean. But I can be appreciative; I’m married, not dead.” She smiled at Harry. “And you’ve always been attractive, but now… well. Let’s just say you’d do well at the ‘Rigid Wand’.”  
  
Harry had just taken a swallow of beer and choked on it. “The what?” He finally managed, laughing.  
  
“Rigid Wand,” Ron answered. “Diagon Alley’s latest addition. Gay bar.”  
  
“Clever name,” Harry sputtered. Ron grinned.  
  
“George loves their crowd. He sells out the light up, sparkly t-shirts that read  _‘wanna ride my broomstick?’_  every weekend.”  
  
Harry laughed again, so hard that when he caught his breath there were tears in his eyes.  
  
“So, you didn’t know when we were in school?” Hermione persisted. Ron let his forehead fall against the table with a solid ‘thunk’. “What? I’m just curious.”  
  
“It’s okay, Ron,” Harry said, rocking back on his chairs back legs. “No, Hermione. I don’t think I did. I had two girlfriends, remember?”  
  
Ron straightened. “Bill knew.”  
  
Harry let his chair legs fall noisily to the tile floor and he and Hermione stared at Ron, wide eyed.  
  
“What?” Harry wheezed. “How? I didn’t know myself.”  
  
“Bill used to bat for both teams,” Ron answered casually. He looked at Hermione. “You knew this.”  
  
“I did,” she agreed.  
  
“I didn’t.” Harry frowned; now he sort of wished he had. Bill was hot.  
  
“But when he married Fleur…” Hermione went on.  
  
“Yeah, marrying a Veela will stop all thoughts you might have had about doing it with anyone else, even a bloke. They don’t share particularly well, and rumor has it they go after the dangling bits.”  
  
“Now who’s charming.” Hermione wrinkled her nose.  
  
“How did he know?” Harry frowned, wondering what he’d done to give himself away even before he understood what was going on himself.  
  
“Said you seemed to have a bit of a crush on him, actually. Followed him around that summer, you know.”  
  
Harry felt his face heat. “God, I did. I mean, I just thought he was really cool, but… now I think about it…Christ, that’s embarrassing.”  
  
“He didn’t mind,” Ron rushed to assure him. “He was flattered. When you disappeared, he took me aside and told me, said he thought you might be having a hard time and if I was your friend, I’d understand you needed some space to sort yourself out.”  
  
“And you couldn’t tell  _me_ ,” Hermione asked, her face growing thunderous. “I’m your wife…”  
  
“No, Hermione,” Ron said, cutting off what seemed to be winding up into another irritated tirade. “I’m his best friend. Even though I knew you were worried, I couldn’t discuss his sexual orientation and the possible ramifications he was dealing with, not even with you.”  
  
Her brows rose nearly to her hairline. “’Possible ramifications’? Who are you, and what have you done with my husband?”  
  
Ron huffed, but Harry laughed. They hadn’t really changed, he thought. Not much; they still bickered and made up, and being with them in their cozy kitchen was like being pulled into a warm hug. He let out a deep breath he’d not known he was holding, feeling more relaxed than he had in a very long time.  
  
“So, why were you asking about school, Hermione?” Harry shot Ron an amused look. “Afraid I had nefarious designs on your husband?”  
  
Ron snorted. “Like I wouldn’t have picked up on  _that_.”  
  
Hermione suddenly seemed very interested in her beer bottle. “No.” She hesitated. “I was actually thinking of sixth year. And…”  
  
“Malfoy,” Harry provided. It wasn’t the first time he’d heard it. “You know, Ginny said something to me once, about thinking it wasn’t normal, the way I was fixated on him.”  
  
“Well, it was… kind of odd. I mean, you thought he was up to something and you were right,” Hermione said quickly, “but I’m not sure that accounted for how much you talked about him…”  
  
Harry started to deny it out of hand, but his inherent honestly wouldn’t let him. Malfoy had been the reason for his crisis in the first place; he wasn’t sure he was a good enough liar to claim the opposite.  
  
“I might have been attracted to him without knowing it,” Harry allowed. “He wasn’t hard on the eyes, after all.”  
  
Ron put his beer down on the table with a sharp thud. He gave Harry a teasing frown. “You mean to tell me I nearly had every pube I own burned off because you had a case of the stiffies for Malfoy?”  
  
“Ronald!”  
  
Harry laughed.  
  
“Daddy?”  
  
The three adults turned, and Harry saw a cherub with red curls wearing footie pajama’s standing in the doorway, rubbing her eyes with her small fist.  
  
“Yes, pumpkin,” Ron said, turning in his chair and holding out his arms. She shuffled to him and climbed up into his lap. “Did we bother you?”  
  
She shook her head, and a soft curl brushed her cheek. Harry felt a sudden longing to reach over and tuck it behind her ear. “No, Ali is snoring,” she said. “It sounds like this.” She did a credible impersonation of a saw pulling through wood, and Harry smiled.  
  
“Rosie,” Ron said, glancing up at his friend. “Do you know who this is?”  
  
Rosie looked blearily at her mother, then across the table at Harry, apparently noticing him for the first time. His smile softened.  
  
“Hello,” he murmured.  
  
“Hi.” She looked up at her father. “Who is it?”  
  
“This is your Uncle Harry, sweetie.”  
  
She looked back at Harry, her eyes wide. “You’re Uncle Harry?”  
  
He nodded. “That would be me.”  
  
“Wow,” she murmured. “You rode a dragon with my mummy and daddy, didn’t you?”  
  
“I did.”  
  
“Mummy told me you were really, really brave.”  
  
Harry gave Hermione a grateful look, and saw she had tears in her eyes. He held her gaze.  
  
“So were your Mummy and Daddy,” he said softly. “Really, really brave.”  
  
He felt something on his arm, and turned back to find the child tugging on the sleeve of his hoodie. “Yes?”  
  
“Are you going to stay with us?”  
  
Harry’s lips fell open. He had no idea how to answer that, but he couldn’t assume…  
  
“Yes.”  
  
He looked at Hermione to find her staring at him with the intense, bright gaze he remembered for Hogwarts. The utterly loyal, unblinking regard that said she believed in him, no matter what. It humbled him.  
  
“If he wants to, Rosie,” Hermione went on, her voice faintly rough. “If Uncle Harry wants to, he can stay here.”  
  
“Thank you,” he murmured, his own throat feeling thick.  
  
Hermione pushed back her chair and came to him, slipping onto his lap and wrapping her arms around his neck. She pressed her face against his throat, and when he felt her shoulders begin to shudder and her tears touch his skin, he encircled her with his arms and held her tight.  
  
“Daddy, why is Mummy crying?”  
  
Harry closed his eyes, one of his hands lifting to stroke her hair.  
  
“Because she’s happy, sweet pea, and because she missed Uncle Harry.”  
  
“Oh.” There was a weighted silence, and Harry could feel both Rosie and Ron watching them. “Daddy?”  
  
“Yes, love.” Ron’s voice was calm and filled with infinite patience. He was a wonderful Dad, Harry thought.  
  
“What’s a case of the stiffies?”  
  
Hermione made a choked sound and began to giggle, and Harry had to bite his lip. He opened his eyes and looked at Ron, only to find him red-faced and floundering, and took pity on him.  
  
“It’s a kind of ice cream, Rosie,” he said, and she turned to look at him. “Frozen stiff, have you ever heard that?” She nodded eagerly. “That’s why they’re called stiffies.”  
  
Ron looked at him over her head, and Harry saw his lips form the words ‘good one’.  
  
“Oh.” Rosie looked thoughtful. “Do they have them at Fortescue’s?”  
  
Hermione sat up, wiping at her cheeks with her fingers and looked down into Harry’s face, her expression mischievous. “Yes, Uncle Harry. Do they have them at Fortescue’s?”  
  
Ron snorted. “I imagine it depends on who’s working behind the counter.”  
  
Harry pressed his red face against Hermione’s shoulder, loving the sound of her laughter.


	7. Candy Pancakes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt for this part:

“Rose Victoria Weasley, what are you doing?”  
  
Harry heard the whisper dimly, still too bogged down by the best night’s sleep he’d had in years to even think about opening his eyes.  
  
“Nothing,” came the answer, very close to his right ear. So close he figured she must be standing next to the bed, within arm’s reach. That went a long way towards urging him to wakefulness.  
  
“What did I tell you about bothering Uncle Harry?” her mum murmured sternly.  
  
“Not to?”  
  
Harry fought a smile and lay very still. He wasn’t used to having his bedroom invaded in the morning, at least not by a four year old. But he was in her house, after all.  
  
“Mummy, he’s not wearing a shirt.”  
  
Now it took all of Harry’s self-control not to pull the blankets up over his shoulder. A shirt wasn’t the only thing he wasn’t wearing, and he was suddenly grateful that he could feel the weight of the blankets around his waist.  
  
“Sweetheart, a lot of men don’t wear a shirt to bed. And come away from there; it’s very rude to stare at someone while they’re asleep.”  
  
“Daddy wears a nightshirt.” Rose said instead of leaving. Harry heard Hermione sigh.  
  
“Yes, he does, Rose. Some men do, and some don’t.”  
  
“I’ve seen Daddy without his shirt, too, sometimes.”  
  
“Well, of course you have. He doesn’t wear one when he’s swimming at the Burrow, does he?”  
  
“Nope.” There was a pause. “Mummy, Daddy doesn’t look like that without his shirt on.”  
  
Harry heard what he thought might be her mother’s smothered giggle.  
  
“No, he certainly does not. But then, Uncle Harry didn’t used to look like that, either. Now, come away from there and let him sleep.” He heard soft footsteps, but it sounded as if they were coming closer rather than walking away. “Unless,” Hermione went on in a very soft voice, much nearer. “Uncle Harry is actually awake, and he’s really just a very bad faker.”  
  
Harry tried to lie as still as he could, but the corner of his lips twitched involuntarily. When a wiggly weight was deposited unceremoniously atop his diaphragm, he let out an undignified ‘oof’.  
  
“Mummy!” Rose squealed, and Harry opened his eyes to find Hermione grinning down at him, her hands on her hips.  
  
“You never were very good at that,” she said, one brow arching. He narrowed his eyes, then reached out and grabbed her wrist, pulling her down onto the bed until they were a giggling tangle of arms and legs. It took several moments for their laughter to subside. Finally, Hermione lay beside him on one side and Rose across his stomach, her elbows planted on his chest and her chin propped on her hands.  
  
“’Morning, Uncle Harry.” Her voice was high and clear, and he smiled.  
  
“’Morning, Miss Rose,” he replied, lifting one arm behind his head. “Lovely jammies.” She was wearing footed pajama’s that had one red striped side and one green and white polka dot side. She wiggled her little feet in response. “Very festive.”  
  
“They’re my Christmas time jammies,” she said proudly.  
  
“They certainly appear to be.”  
  
She nodded, then studied him with her large brown eyes. “You have black hair under your arm,” she said matter-of-factly. Hermione made a choked sound beside him.  
  
“Rose!”  
  
“Well, he does.”  
  
Harry blinked. “Why yes, I do. But then I have black hair on my head.”  
  
She nodded solemnly. “The hair under Daddy’s arms isn’t black.”  
  
“Neither is the hair on his head,” Harry said reasonably. Again, she nodded.  
  
“You don’t have freckles, either. My grammie calls them Angel kisses, did you know?”  
  
“I didn’t, but I’m sure she’s right. Your Grammie is one of the smartest people I’ve ever met.”  
  
Her blue eyes widened. “You know my Grammie Molly?”  
  
Harry smiled. “I do, indeed. Have done since I was eleven years old.”  
  
“What’s going on in here?”  
  
Harry looked up and saw Ron lounging against the door frame, a curious smile on his face.  
  
“We were discussing the relative merits of freckles and the different colors of body hair,” his wife answered, propping her head up on her hand. “Please come and get your daughter before she remembers that under your arms isn’t the only place you have ginger body hair.”  
  
“Hermione,” Ron said with a startled laugh, but crossed to the bed and lifted a squirming Rosie up into his arms. “And you, young lady. For some reason I thought four was a bit young to be discussing with you why crawling into bed with a strange man might not be the best course of action. Clearly, I need to re-evaluate.”  
  
“I’m not that strange,” Harry said with a lopsided grin.  
  
“Well,” Ron and Hermione said together, then shared a smile.  
  
“And you, woman. What kind of lesson are you teaching your daughter?”  
  
“This isn’t my fault,” Hermione said, lifting her hand to Ron, who obligingly helped her out of the bed. “He yanked me down here.”  
  
“Is that so?” Ron settled Rose on her feet and gave her small backside a pat, sending her towards the door. She skipped away, giggling. “It might be stretching the limits of my hospitality to find you in bed with my wife and my daughter,” Ron said, giving Harry a wry look. Harry grinned.  
  
“Good thing I’m queer, isn’t it?”  
  
“Daddy, what’s queer?”  
  
Harry winced, Hermione giggled and Ron groaned.  
  
“Thanks for that, Mate,” Ron muttered. “Get your arse out of bed. Pancakes in ten. I’m cooking.”  
  
“You?” Harry replied, brows lifting  
  
“He’s actually much better at it than I am,” Hermione said magnanimously, but a wicked twinkle entered her eyes. “He’s more domestic, but I’m infinitely smarter.”  
  
“Is that so?” Ron swung his arm in a wide arc and his large hand connected with her bottom with a resounding smack. She squeaked, but laughed as she headed for the door.  
  
“Not smart to abuse a barrister, Ronald,” she said without heat.  
  
Ron gave a long suffering sigh. “So you’re forever telling me.” He followed her to the door, then paused on the threshold and looked back at Harry. “You. Up.” He left, closing the door behind him.  
  
Harry looked at the door with a smile. He thought the small family was brilliant.  
  
~***~  
  
“You do not have Harry Potter in your guest room!”  
  
The high pitched voice sounded indignant and disbelieving, and Harry slowed as he neared the opening that led into the kitchen.  
  
“If you say so, Miss Alice,” Ron replied easily.  
  
“We do so!” Rose argued, apparently incensed.  
  
“No, you don’t!” Alice Longbottom sounded suspiciously like a junior version of her Aunt Hermione. “My teacher told us that Harry Potter hasn’t been seen in Britain in a long, long time.”  
  
“Well, your teacher is a big dumb head!”  
  
“Rose, don’t say dumb head. It isn’t nice.” Hermione sounded extremely amused.  
  
“Well, she is. Harry Potter is my Uncle, and he’s in the guest room.”  
  
“Afraid she’s right, Alice,” Ron said.  
  
“I think you’re all fibbing.”  
  
Harry thought it was perhaps time for him to make an appearance, and he stepped around the doorframe. Ron saw him from where he stood at the stove with a spatula in his hand, and he gave Harry a knowing grin.  
  
“Good Morning.”  
  
The little girls at the table turned, and a miniature version of Ginny Weasley as she’d looked the first time Harry had seen her only with brown hair stared at him, her mouth falling open.  
  
“See?” Rose said triumphantly. “I  _told_  you. You think you’re so smart.”  
  
“Rose, be nice.” Hermione said sternly, taking a seat across from the girls.  
  
“Welcome to breakfast with children, Mate,” Ron said, putting a plate in front of Alice, who continued to stare at Harry in awe. “Chocolate chip or blueberry pancakes?”  
  
Harry smiled. “Blueberry, thanks.”  
  
“Chocolate chip are better,” Rose said. “They have  _candy_  in them!”  
  
Harry pursed his lips, pretended to think about it. “Really?”  
  
“Yep. See the specks?” She picked up her pancake and waved it at him.  
  
“Rose. Fork, please!” Hermione scolded.  
  
Rose plopped the pancake back onto her plate. “Those are candy. And then Daddy lets me put frosting sugar on it!”  
  
“And then we wait for the sugar high to wear off some time around four this afternoon.” Hermione took a sip of a cup of coffee and smirked at the front page of the newspaper.  
  
“I think I’m going to have to change my order then, Chef,” Harry said brightly, grinning at Ron. “How can I resist pancakes with candy?”  
  
Ron poured batter into a skillet and sprinkled it with chocolate chips. “How, indeed?”  
  
“You’ll like’em,” Rose promised.  
  
“I’m sure,” Harry agreed.  
  
Alice continued to stare at him.  
  
“You’re Harry Potter,” she said finally. Harry grinned.  
  
“Always quick on the uptake, our Alice,” Ron snorted.  
  
~***~  
  
“Healer Malfoy.”  
  
Draco paused on his way to the lunch room, glancing back over his shoulder. He’d been on his feet for nearly thirty-six hours, and he was looking forward to a stale scone and a horrible cup of coffee, such were the treats of his life at the moment.  
  
“Yes, Smithers?”  
  
She bustled to him, her outstretched hand holding a scrap of parchment. “This came for you while you were in the last consultation.”  
  
“Thank you.”  
  
Draco peered down at the note.  
  


> Possible outbreak of juvenile wizard influenza at Freddie’s. Two babies already afflicted. The night matron was wondering when you might have a chance to stop by.

  
  
Draco sighed and rubbed the back of his neck.  
  
“Would you like me to respond for you?”  
  
Draco met Smithers’ imperturbable gaze. “Please. Let them know I’m not off shift until this evening, but I’ll come ‘round on my way home.” Her lips were pinched. Draco stifled an irritated huff. “All right, Smithers. Out with it. I can see you don’t approve.”  
  
She gave him mild look. “It is not my place to approve or disapprove, Healer.” That was certainly what he thought, but he could also see she wasn’t done, so he waited, brows arched. She sighed. “I just think it might be nice if those people remember that you’ve a very demanding job, and that you aren’t getting paid for your time there.”  
  
Draco felt his irritation fade. “I appreciate you looking out for my interests, Smithers, but  _those people_  are running a home for war orphans and children whose families have been unable to care for them since the war’s end. I think the least I can do is treat a few ear aches and sore throats, don’t you?”  
  
She pursed her lips. “If you say so.”  
  
Draco handed her back the parchment. “I do.” He caught her arm before she could walk away. “I do appreciate your thoughtfulness, however.”  
  
She looked uncomfortable but nodded, and he released her, returning to his journey to the lunch room.  
  
Smithers was a tough old bird, he reflected as he picked up a plate with what he thought might be a cinnamon raison scone on it and ordered a cup of coffee. For whatever reason, she looked out for him, and he truly was grateful. But he’d been checking on the kids at ‘Freddie’s House’ at least twice a week since he’d been in medical school. He wasn’t about to stop now.  
  
Unlike the man the place was named for, he’d survived, and when he said he thought it was the least he could do, he meant that quite literally. After all, George Weasley had been the one who had set his feet on his current career path. He’d also been the second person who’d thought he was worth saving.  
  
The first had been Harry Potter.  
  
Draco picked moodily at his dry scone and couldn’t help but wonder what Potter might think if he saw him now.


	8. The Prodigal Son

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt for this part:

Draco removed his jacket as he entered the front door of ‘Freddie’s House’, stomping the show from his boots. In the wizarding section of London, it looked as if they’d had measurable snow fall every day for a week. In the section of Muggle London where he lived, there wasn’t a smidge. It was an odd juxtaposition. Beautiful, but he wished the wizards in charge of the ‘festive holiday environment’ weren’t quite so emphatic on realism. After all, every wizard family worth their salt had perpetually falling, non-melting snow on their indoor Christmas trees. Did it really have to be thirty degrees outside, too? Going from the damp mid-fifties to temperatures below freezing was just inviting pneumonia.  
  
“Oh, Draco, dear. I’m so glad you’re here.”  
  
He looked up as he hung his heavy outer robes on a coat rack to see Molly Weasley bustling toward him down the long narrow hallway. She looked careworn and frazzled, and he frowned.  
  
He knew his father must be spinning in his well-deserved grave to think his son was now on a first name basis with the Weasley matron, but he didn’t much care. Once George had befriended him and asked him to be the Healer of record at Freddie’s House (something he’d agreed to with the understanding that as he was a trainee; more serious cases had to be referred to St. Mungo’s immediately), she had embraced him with all of the motherly affection she did her other children’s strays. She always made sure he had a warm meal and a cup of tea, and he was always grateful. It was astounding how far a few kind words could go when your life consisted of work, sleep, and more work.  
  
“What’s the matter, Molly?” He hung his scarf over his coat before turning to her. She searched his face carefully.  
  
“Oh, dear. You look tired; are you all right?”  
  
He spared her a slight smile. “I’m fine. More importantly,  _you_  look tired. We talked about the long hours you’re putting in here.” She’d had a minor episode with her heart the year before, and Draco frowned.  
  
“Oh, I’m all right,” she said, brushing away his concern. “I just couldn’t leave before we got the babies sorted, could I?”  
  
Draco sighed softly, following her as she started up the stairs toward the nursery. “Which babies?”  
  
“Monty and little Helena. They’ve both got fevers, and I can’t seem to get them to break. We’ve tried tepid baths and fever potions, and nothing is working.”  
  
Draco nodded as he listened. They’d had several cases of juvenile wizarding influenza in emergency at St. Mungo’s that evening. Once the illness started, it didn’t take long for it to get a foothold and it seemed every winter they had an outbreak right before Christmas. Particularly in residences with several children. It wasn’t dangerous in older children, but in infants, it could be extremely problematic. It caused respiratory problems and dehydration… “Are they in the nursery?”  
  
She nodded as they stepped out onto the second floor. “We moved the other babies out as soon as it started, but by that time…”  
  
He nodded. Symptoms didn’t appear until ten days to two weeks after exposure; all of the children, all twenty seven of them, could have been exposed by now. And another fifteen would be arriving home on the Hogwarts Express on the fifteenth. He sighed and raked his fingers through his hair. This could be a nightmare.  
  
Before they even got to the open nursery door, Draco could hear one of the babies wailing. Monty, if he didn’t miss his guess. Poor little mite had been found in a dumpster behind the Leaky Cauldron when he was six hours old, and the exposure hadn’t done his immature lungs a bit of good. When Draco first started encountering cases like that at St. Mungo’s, he’d been furious with the mother. But the longer he’d been there, the more he’d come to realize that not all wounds from the war left outward scars, and that Monty’s mother was probably Draco’s age. If she’d been in England, she’d survived a war. And none of them had been left unscathed. He didn’t make judgments anymore, not now he’d met people who had ceased to judge him.  
  
He felt the room sealing ward as he passed through the open door, and gave Molly an appreciative nod. “Well done, Molly.” The ward would contain the active infection to this one room. It might not help anyone who had already been exposed, but it would protect the others.  
  
She gave him a cheeky look. “I raised seven, dearie.”  
  
He spared her a brief smile. “So, you did.”  
  
The night matron, Sheila Corner, was pacing the room, walking a red-faced, squalling Monty, and another woman was sitting in a rocking chair, rocking diminutive Helena. She wasn’t crying, but her rusty flush and vacant stare were almost as disconcerting.  
  
“First things first,” Draco said, taking out his wand and casting a quick cleaning and sterilizing spell on his hands. “Come here, Monty,” he said, reaching for him. The baby, hiccoughing pitifully, reached his chubby arms out for Draco in return. The moment he held him, Draco could feel the heat coming from his little body. “Ah, little man,” he crooned, swaying in place, his palm on the back of the baby’s neck. “Feeling dreadful, aren’t you?” He murmured  _tempus colaris_ , and watched as numbers above the little boy’s head climbed from 98.6 slowly, stopping only when they’d reached 102.9. He heard Molly gasp.  
  
“It’s gone up a degree in the last half hour,” she said.  
  
Draco nodded, then headed for the second rocking chair that sat between the six cribs, three along one wall, three along the other. He settled himself, holding Monty in the curve of his arm.  
  
“You’re going to be very cross with me, little man.” He gave the baby a sympathetic smile, and the little boy gave another pathetic, shuddering hiccup. Holding him firmly, Draco made a slow, sweeping wand movement with his free hand, saying  _vestis geli_. Immediately, he felt the cool, invisible blanket that surrounded the infant. Monty’s little face took on a look of complete betrayal, and he arched his back, digging his heels into Draco’s thigh, screaming for all he was worth. “I know, love,” Draco crooned, rocking. “I know. That was hateful of me, wasn’t it? But we have to bring the temp down, Cricket. If we don’t, you could be very sick, indeed.”  
  
He held the baby for long minutes, rocking, speaking in a soft, soothing voice, and slowly Monty began to quiet. After half an hour, the child’s color was nearer to normal and he had drifted into a restless sleep. Draco rose carefully and transferred him to Molly’s arms. He took a quick temp reading; it had dropped to 99.  
  
“Better, but not where I’d like it,” he whispered. “We need to get some fluids into him, and I’ll send over to the hospital for some anti-infection potions.”  
  
“He already looks so much better,” Molly said, clearly relieved.  
  
“I imagine he feels a good deal better.” He cast another cleansing spell on his hands, then turned to go to the other baby. Just as he lifted Helena into his arms, George appeared in the doorway looking frazzled.  
  
“How are they?” he asked without preamble.  
  
“J.W.I, Georgie,” his mother answered. He grimaced.  
  
“I was afraid of that.” He looked at Draco almost apologetically. “I’m think we’ve got another two cases across the hall. Marigold and Chrysanthemum both just spiked fevers.”  
  
Draco sighed. It was going to be a long night.  
  
~***~  
  
“Who is this?”  
  
Harry held up the small framed picture that sat on the end table near is elbow. It showed a rock structure that looked like a church, and a horse drawn sleigh holding a young couple. There was several feet of snow on the ground, and sturdy pine trees heavily flocked with more.  
  
“My dad’s parents,” Hermione answered with a soft smile. “That was taken right after their wedding in Switzerland in 1945.”  
  
“Nice.” Harry put the picture back on the table. “They look happy. And very cold. I feel sorry for the horse.”  
  
“Feeling a special affinity for them now, are you?” Hermione teased. “I always wanted to get married there,” she said wistfully. “Instead, I got married in a cornfield in Ottery St. Catchpole.”  
  
“I can’t tell you how much I regret missing it,” Harry said. He meant it.  
  
“I can’t tell you how much I regret it, too, but that’s old history now.” She crossed her legs underneath her. “So, you lived in Montana and worked at a… what did you call it?” She cradled a cup of tea in her hand. It was Saturday, no one had to go to work, and they were enjoying the relative quite while Ron took Rose and their small mongrel dog, ‘Bludger’, for a walk.  
  
Harry smirked. “A dude ranch. A place where people with too much money and zero sense came to spend a few days roughing it on the ‘open trail’, trying to recapture the days of the golden west.” He grinned. “I never met a single American man who didn’t want to be a cowboy.” Hermione raised a brow and looked pointedly at Harry’s fancy boots. “Okay. Touché.”  
  
“It doesn’t sound very… fulfilling.” She took a sip of her tea.  
  
“Shoveling shit rarely is.”  
  
She shook her head. “That’s not what I meant.”  
  
“I know what you meant, Hermione.”  
  
They studied one another across the narrow space. She looked away first. “I just always thought you’d want to do something that mattered.”  
  
“It mattered to the horses.” She turned back and gave him a level, unamused look he hadn’t seen in years. Where once it would have annoyed him, now it merely warmed him. “Hermione, when I left here, I wasn’t thinking about doing something that mattered. All I was thinking of was going some place where no one knew my name, or my face, and wouldn’t judge me for who I was or the choices I made.”  
  
She looked into her cup, and her full curly hair fell forward over her shoulder. She pushed it back with a negligent gesture. “I guess I can understand that,” she murmured. “Everyone had put a terrible burden on you, for a very long time.”  
  
“I didn’t mind.” She gave him a wry look.  
  
“You always minded.”  
  
“Okay, I didn’t mind my role, once I understood what it was. But once he was dead, I felt… I don’t know.”  
  
“Like the wizarding world should bugger off and leave you the hell alone?”  
  
Harry laughed, and she smiled. “Pretty much, actually. But then there were the funerals, and the trials, and you and Ron were gone. And I had this… well, what felt like a terrifying realization about myself right in the middle of it, and there wasn’t anyone I could talk to.”  
  
She looked as if she might cry. “I’m sorry, Harry.”  
  
“Oh, don’t be silly,” he said quickly. “That isn’t what I meant, and you had to go find your Mum and Dad. I never begrudged you that, Hermione. Never.” He searched for the right words. “I just wanted to be… invisible. Just for a while.”  
  
“Ten years is more than ‘just a while’, Harry.” He could see how much they’d missed him, and it humbled him.  
  
“I know.” He sighed. “I tried Europe for a while, but wizarding towns were out. The moment I got there, it – well, let’s just say I couldn’t disappear. Even in the Muggle areas, there was always a wizard around. It wasn’t until I got to America that I could really just be myself.”  
  
“So, you worked a bunch of odd jobs for the next eight years?”  
  
He shrugged. “Yeah, pretty much. I stayed where I wanted for as long as I wanted, and then I moved on.”  
  
She frowned. “I think that sounds like a sad, sort of meaningless existence, Harry.”  
  
“That’s because you have roots here, Hermione. Your parents, Ron, your in-laws. And you always knew what you wanted to do. I never did. I didn’t expect to live past the war; I wasn’t exactly doing career planning.”  
  
“You wanted to be an Auror.”  
  
Harry grimaced. “That changes when you kill someone, no matter how horrible they’ve become.”  
  
She stared at him, her eyes clouded. “I feel like we all let you down, if you didn’t believe you had roots.”  
  
He shook his head emphatically. “You didn’t. You all just had this vision in your head of how things were going to be; you were going to marry Ron, I was going to marry Ginny, and we were all going to live near one another and send our kids to the same primaries, then stand together on platform nine and three quarters and send them off to Hogwarts.” He gave her a sad smile. “How was I supposed to tell all of you it wasn’t ever going to happen?”  
  
She sighed. “I’d like to say we’d have understood, but when we were eighteen – I’m not sure we would have.”  
  
“I know,” he said softly. “How could you understand it when I didn’t?”  
  
“Oh, Harry.”  
  
The hearth suddenly flared brilliant green, and Harry startled. It had been years since he’d seen a Floo activate. Moments later, George Weasley’s face appeared.  
  
“Hi, George,” Hermione said, setting aside her tea and kneeling before the fire.  
  
“Hi, Hermione. Oh, I’m sorry; you have company.”  
  
Harry knew he couldn’t see more than his boots, and when she glanced his way, he shook his head. He’d see them; he just wasn’t ready for the Weasley’s to descend en masse.  
  
“It’s all right,” she said quickly. “What did you need?”  
  
“Is Ronnikins around?”  
  
She shook her head. “He’s out walking with Rosie and Bludger.”  
  
“Well, when he gets back would you tell him I’m going to need him to keep an eye on Diagon for me for a few days?”  
  
Hermione frowned. “Is something wrong?”  
  
“We’ve got J.W.I. at Freddie’s, and it’s all hands on deck.” Hermione made a distressed sound. “And I don’t want either of you coming about; the last thing we need is for Rosie to get it and spread it through the grandkids right before Christmas.”  
  
“Is there anything we can do?” she asked.  
  
George shook his head. “We’ve got our resident Healer on deck, and Mum is here. I think we’ve got it covered for now. But if we need more hands, I’ll let you know.”  
  
“Okay, George. Take care.”  
  
The fireplace went dark, and Hermione sat back on the rug, her brow furrowed.  
  
“What’s J.W.I.?” Harry asked. “And what’s Freddie’s?”  
  
“J. W. I. is Juvenile Wizarding Influenza,” she answered absently. “It isn’t necessarily serious, but it’s nasty business. Lasts several days, causes upper respiratory distress and high fevers. And Freddie’s is the orphanage George started in Fred’s honor…” She began to chew her thumbnail.  
  
“What’s the matter, Hermione?”  
  
She shook her head. “Nothing, really. It’s just Molly had an episode with her heart earlier in the year, and was told to take it easy. If she’s taking care of a bunch of sick children…”  
  
“You couldn’t stop her if you sat in the middle of her.” Harry shook his head. “You know how she is.”  
  
“I do,” Hermione mused. After a moment, she looked up at him where he sat, a calculated gleam in her eyes. “But she might be persuaded to let someone else do it, if she knew the prodigal son had returned.”  
  
Harry stared at her in resignation. He knew Hermione; once she got that look on her face, they were all better off just to get out of her way.


	9. Benign Conspiracy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt for this part:

Harry had given up trying to reason with Hermione long ago when she got that calculating look in her eyes. Apparently, Ron had done the same. So it was no surprise later that morning when he found himself trudging toward George’s brainchild, Freddie’s House, through the magically produced snow in a scenic outskirt of London. He was wearing his hoodie, gloves and trainer’s Ron had produced that were two sizes too big. They stuffed toilet tissue in the toes to make them fit. As Ron correctly pointed out, cowboy boots were scarcely winter weather wear. And Harry didn’t relish the idea of landing on his arse in the middle of a snowy street.  
  
It was with a festive atmosphere that Ron, Hermione, Rosie, Harry and Bludger all started out on what was a short walk to the  _Apparation_  point. When they arrived at their destination a few moments later, Hermione providing the side-along, Harry felt a bit as if his insides had been hallowed out with a spoon.  
  
“Are you all right?” Hermione held onto his arm as he staggered on arrival. He’d always hated  _Apparating_. Now he remembered why.  
  
“Aside from the fact that my pancakes may make an untimely reappearance, I’m fine.” He gave her a grim smile.  
  
“I’d forgotten about your stomach.”  
  
“I’ll survive.”  
  
Ron set both Rose and Bludger on the ground, then grabbed the little dog’s leash. He was a happy little mess, all waging tail and wide doggy smile. Harry couldn’t help but grin when he looked at him. He’d always wanted a dog, but it hadn’t seemed fair when he moved around the way he did. Maybe he’d get one, now he was home. Wherever that ended up being.  
  
“Don’t you like  _Parotating_ , Uncle Harry?” Rosie's high, bright voice rang on the chill morning air.  
  
“It makes Uncle Harry’s tummy unhappy,” Hermione answered, and the little girl nodded solemnly.  
  
“Then you need peppermint butterscotch ice cream,” she said with an air of authority. “When I feel icky Daddy brings me some, and then I’m all better.”  
  
Harry swallowed the saliva that filled his mouth. “Maybe later, sweetheart.” He felt a little green at the idea of the flavor combination, and Hermione gave him a knowing look.  
  
“You’re sure surprising her like this is a good idea?” Harry asked as they started the short trek to the orphanage, Rosie holding Hermione’s hand, Ron holding Bludger’s leash. Harry felt awkward in the middle, and shoved his hands into his pockets.  
  
“It’ll be fine,” Hermione assured him.  
  
“I’m just concerned. You said she has a heart condition –”  
  
“That was mostly due to stress and exhaustion.” Ron held tight to Bludger’s leash when he saw a squirrel, and Rosie laughed when the little rodent shot effortlessly up the trunk of one of the trees that lined the street, its tail twitching. “She was trying to run the nursery at the orphanage by herself, and cook all the meals. They’ve got help in since.”  
  
“Yes, but if she’s been there the better part of two days, she’ll be exhausted. Something her Healer told her not to do,” Hermione reminded him.  
  
“I still don’t get how my startling her half to death, and her going home to cook a ‘welcome home’ feast, is going to lessen her exhaustion.” Harry frowned.  
  
“Ah, but you’re just the first part of the plan,” Ron answered, a twinkle in his blue eyes. “First, we spring you on her, your arrival which translates to ‘having everyone over to welcome you home and making mass amounts of food’. She’ll go home to get started, but first she’ll have a cup of tea.”  
  
“This is where Arthur comes in,” Hermione picked up with relish. “He’ll sneak a couple of drops of sleeping draught into her tea, and before you know it, she’ll be out like a light.”  
  
“Until tomorrow,” Ron concluded. Harry still wasn’t sure.  
  
“Won’t she’ll be mad at Arthur when she figures it out.”  
  
“She won’t.” Harry turned to Hermione, one brow arched incredulously. She shrugged. “She never has before. Believe me, this isn’t the first time we’ve utilized this system.”  
  
Harry shook his head. “I don’t want her to feel bad because she thinks she fell asleep before she could cook me dinner.”  
  
Ron gave him a jolly pat on the shoulder and Harry stumbled a bit under the force of it. He’d forgot the inherent Weasley exuberance, and the bruises that sometimes went along with it.  
  
“You worry too much,” Ron said, his voice ringing with confidence. “She’ll be fine.”  
  
They walked half way down the block, and then stopped before a large brick building set slightly back from the road. It had a tall wrought iron gate and a cheery wreath hanging on the door.  
  
“I’ll go in and get her,” Ron said, handing Hermione Bludger’s leash.  
  
“Daddy, I wanna go, too!” Rose said, reaching for his hand.  
  
“No, baby. A bunch of the little ones are sick, and we don’t want you to get it so close to Christmas.”  
  
“Actually, she probably wouldn’t,” Hermione said. “George must’ve forgotten people with Muggle parentage are much less likely to catch it.”  
  
Ron looked startled for a moment. “Frankly, so had I until you mentioned it, Hermione.”  
  
“It’s all right; she shouldn’t be under foot in there right now, anyway. Here, Rose sweetheart; why don’t you make some snowballs, and then throw them for Bludger to chase?”  
  
Ron escaped up the shoveled brick walkway while Rose was distracted, and Harry crouched down next to her, scratching behind Bludger’s ears while Rose made a haphazard mound of snowballs. He looked up at Hermione.  
  
“Why do you suppose Muggleborns are less likely to come down with it, Hermione?”  
  
“It’s been theorized it’s because of the history of vaccination amongst Muggle’s; the disease must share some fundamental characteristics with something the vaccines prevent.”  
  
“Wouldn’t it make sense, then, for witches and wizards to consider vaccinating their children?”  
  
Hermione pursed her lips. “You know how wizards are, Harry. Getting them to trust something Muggle, particularly something that’s delivered with a needle?” She shook her head. “Molly even had a bit of a fit when we had Rose vaccinated, thinking it might not be safe. Much safer than letting her get J.W.I., I’m thinking.”  
  
Harry frowned and stood. “Can it be fatal?”  
  
“Not ordinarily. But it’s dangerous in infants, and it’s very unpleasant for adults who are unfortunate enough to catch it.”  
  
Harry looked up at the house, frowning. “Should Molly even be here, then?”  
  
“She had it when she was little. You can’t get it more than once.” She looked thoughtful for a moment, as if weighing whether or not she ought to say something. “It’s interesting you’d suggest the possibility of vaccinating wizarding children, actually.”  
  
“Why is that?”  
  
Rose continued to blissfully make snowballs while Bludger began to blissfully eat them. She didn’t seem to notice.  
  
“Freddie’s Place has a Healer of Record. He suggested the same thing.” She looked away down the street, rocking on her heels. “Of course, the board of Governors won’t listen to him, but he’s still trying.”  
  
“Sounds to me like a smart bloke.” Harry crossed his arms over his chest. The temperature difference between here in wizarding London and Ottery St. Catchpole was shocking when the wind began to blow. He’d need to purchase some heavier clothes. He’d come back home with just what he’d managed to fit into the rucksack, and he doubted anything in storage at Grimmauld Place would fit any longer.  
  
Hermione smirked. “I agree. Even Ronald does, which…”  
  
Whatever else she might have been going to say was interrupted when the front door to the house opened and Molly’s voice carried to them.  
  
“Honestly, Ronald. There is so much to do. Couldn’t this have waited?”  
  
“No, Mum. It’s pretty important.”  
  
“Listen to him, Mum.” This was George’s voice, and Harry smiled. “You don’t want to miss this.”  
  
“Well, for heaven’s sakes,” she complained as they escorted her down the walkway. “Let’s make it fast, because there are diapers to be washed and dinner to be fixed…”  
  
“Something Mirabella is more than capable of,” George said.  
  
“Well, I know that, George. But everyone is more efficient when they have help. I think you boys are just trying to maneuver me, and you know how cross I get when your father does that.”  
  
“No, trust me, Mum.” Ron was leading her down the sidewalk walking backwards, and he glanced over his shoulder. George saw Harry, and his face split in an enormous, happy smile. “No maneuvering involved.” They’d arrived directly in front of Harry, and Ron took a step to the side. An expectant hush fell over the small group.  
  
“Hello, Molly,” Harry said softly.  
  
Her hair had escaped it’s loose bun and strands fanned out around her face in a frazzled halo, as if she’d run her fingers through it multiple times, and it was very gray at the temples. She looked tired and careworn, and thinner than he’d ever seen her, and Harry was suddenly fiercely glad nothing had happened to either her or Arthur before he made it back to England. The ten years he’d spent away felt like the definition of selfishness, particularly when her hand went to her throat in shock and her faded blue eyes filled with tears.  
  
“Harry?” she gasped. “Oh.” She reached out, her hands trembling. She had to go up on her toes to wrap her arms around his neck, and Harry, startled to find her so small, bent to embrace her. “Oh, oh Harry!”  
  
Harry felt her shaking in his arms, and he whispered, ‘hello, Mum’, next to her ear. Her hands fisted in his hoodie, and she wept.  
  
“What’s the matter with Grammie?” Rose said, her voice sounding unnaturally loud on the still street.  
  
“Shh,” Hermione said.  
  
“Why is she crying?”  
  
“Because she’s happy to see Uncle Harry.” Ron bent over and picked her up.  
  
“So why is she crying if she’s happy?” Rose persisted. “That doesn’t make any sense at all.”  
  
Harry couldn’t help it; in spite of the tears in his eyes, he chuckled. He heard Molly give a watery chuckle as well, and she pulled back from him.  
  
“You’re quite right, Duckie,” Molly said to the little girl, reaching into her sleeve for a handkerchief. “Your grammie is just a silly old watering pot.” She wiped her face, then stopped as she looked up into Harry’s face. “Merlin, look at you,” she whispered, cupping his cheek in her free hand. “You’ve always been a handsome boy, Harry. But my goodness, what a man you’ve become!” Harry felt his face fill with heat even as Ron and George made kissy noises. “Oh, stop it, you two!”  
  
“Molly,” Hermione said casually, “don’t you think we need to let everyone else know Harry is home?”  
  
“Oh, yes!” She tucked her hankie into her sleeve. “I can send Arthur for a roast, and…” Her voice faded away, and she looked back at the imposing house, her lower lip caught between her teeth.  
  
“Mum, don’t even think about it,” George said. “We’ve got everything under control, here.”  
  
“But Georgie, there’s all of that laundry to do – ”  
  
“What if Ron and I go put it together? You can take it with you. That way you can put up your feet and have a cuppa and Dad can help you fold it.”  
  
She didn’t look convinced. Hermione gave Harry an imploring look.  
  
“I’ve had dreams about your roasts, Molly,” he said. That was all it took. Ron handed Rose to Hermione, and Molly gave a series of rapid fire instructions as they disappeared back inside.  
  
“Why do I feel as if I just contributed to a conspiracy?” Harry asked dryly.  
  
“Because you did, but one most benevolent in nature,” Hermione said. “You saw how tired she looked.”  
  
“Yeah.” Harry nodded. She did look tired. And frail. Once again he felt a surge of guilt.  
  
“Mummy.” Rose was tugging on Hermione’s scarf.  
  
“Yes, Rose?”  
  
She put her lips next to her mother’s ear. “I need to wee.” Harry looked away, swallowing a smile. Apparently the concept of whispering was somewhat lost on the little girl. Hermione sighed.  
  
“I’m sure Uncle George won’t mind if we use the loo in the lobby.” She looked apologetically at Harry.  
  
“No worries,” he said. “I’ll just take Bludger for a walk up the block and back. After eating all of those snowballs, I imagine he could stand a wee, too.”  
  
Rose giggled, and Hermione set her on her feet, taking her hand. “Come along then.”  
  
Harry watched them go with a fond smile, then looked down at the little dog. “Well, it’s just you and me, Bludger. Care for a stroll?”  
  
Bludger gave a small ‘yip’ and wagged his tail enthusiastically, and Harry was grinning as he started off down the snowy street.  
  


~***~

  
  
Draco sighed as he made his way down the stairs. He’d been in the nursery at Freddie’s House for just under twelve hours, and St. Mungo’s had just paged him on the communication bracelet he wore at all times. He’d admitted Helena the night before; her fever wasn’t as high as Monty’s, but there had been fluid building in her lungs. Apparently the nurse’s shift had just changed, and they had questions about some of the notations in the baby’s chart. But then, he told himself firmly, he was going home. He had to sleep, or he would be no good for anyone.  
  
He saw Molly coming in the door followed by George and Ron Weasley, and he hesitated a bit at the landing. He and Weasley got on better than they used to, but there were still occasional barbs exchanged. They weren’t mean spirited any longer, and Draco enjoyed it when he was rested, but right now – he wasn’t. Molly led the way toward the stairs that went down to the kitchen and the laundry room, talking a mile a minute, and her sons trailed meekly after her. He’d have snorted but for the fact that if Narcissa snapped her fingers, he hopped to, as well.  
  
He had just made it to the entrance hall when the front door opened again, and Hermione Granger-Weasley entered, her redheaded progeny in tow. He gave an exaggerated sigh.  
  
“Is every Weasley in creation about to walk through that door?”  
  
“Healer Draco!” Rose cried in delight.  
  
He smiled at her and gave an abbreviated bow. “Miss Weasley, a pleasure.”  
  
“You’re funny,” Rose said. “And handsome. Don’t you think he’s handsome, Mummy? He looks like the prince in my story book.”  
  
“Rose!” Hermione’s cheeks turned a fetching pink.  
  
“Well, he does!”  
  
“And I believe his ego is healthy enough without any help from you, young lady.” She pulled her young daughter toward the door to the loo. “Didn’t you say – ”  
  
“Oh, yeah!” The little girl pulled away from her mother and ran to the door of the facilities, and Hermione followed her with a long suffering sigh.  
  
“Nice to see you, Granger,” he called after her.  
  
“You too, Malfoy. And it’s Weasley.”  
  
The door closed behind Hermione and her daughter, and Draco smiled wearily. They engaged in the same exchange about her last name every time they saw one another. The day they didn’t, he’d know something was terribly wrong.  
  
He sighed as he tucked the ends of his scarf around his neck and let himself out of the large house, pausing on the front step to take a deep breath. Fortunately, it hadn’t gotten any colder, and Draco thought the breeze that had picked up might be a good thing; it could help keep him awake. He’d left instructions in the nursery that he be contacted immediately if any of the babies conditions worsened, that the older children be kept hydrated, the ones not yet exhibiting symptoms isolated from the ones who were, and he planned to return in ten hours. That left him time for a quick trip by the hospital, then a solid eight hours sleep. And he desperately needed it.  
  
He turned at the end of the walk to head to the nearest  _Apparition_  point when he heard a shrill whistle behind him. Turning, he staggered to a halt and stared.  
  
About half way up the block, and man was walking a dog. A man dressed in black from his head to his toes, with very broad shoulders and narrow hips, holding the leash of a little white dog with liver colored spots. And Draco stared.  
  
It was the same man; he could feel it. He took a step towards him, determined to find out who he was when the bracelet on his wrist warmed and vibrated, a soft buzz on the still morning air.  
  
Draco cursed colorfully under his breath, pulling back his sleeve.  
  


> Healer Malfoy, need immediate consult on patient Helena Sommersby. Admitting papers filed incorrectly.  
> Head Mediwitch Marianis Steffani

  
  
Draco scowled. Steffani was an interfering bint who lived to cause him trouble, but she was also fairly powerful within the political hierarchy at the hospital. He had to go.  
  
He cast one last, lingering look at the man who had stopped and was now crouched down, tussling playfully with the dog.  
  
 _“You can tell a great deal about a man by how he treats an animal,”_  his mother often said.  
  
Draco turned and continued his walk, the corners of his mouth pulled down in a scowl.  
  
He doubted he’d ever know anything about that one.


	10. An Extra Pair of Hands

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt for this part:

Draco walked into his gloomy apartment carrying a bag of necessities he’d picked up at the grocers, kicking the door closed behind him. Once again there was a small stack of post on the floor, and he set the sack aside in order to pick it up.  
  
On the very top was a note from his mother. He could recite it by heart without even breaking the seal.  
  
 _“I do wish, if you insist on living outside of the Manor,”_ he said, affecting a nearly dead on, falsetto impersonation of his mother,  _“that you’d at least find a flat in a wizarding area so I don’t have to attempt to post the Muggle way. I never know if I’ve attached enough of those odd little squares.”_ There was about ten pounds worth of stamps on every available surface of the envelope, and Draco smiled faintly. “I believe you could have sent me the dining room sideboard with this much post, Mother.” He tossed the note onto the sofa; he couldn’t deal with another rendition of ‘why in the world you think you need to work is beyond me’. Or perhaps it would be the ever popular ‘when do you plan to get married and provide me with a grandchild?’ Either way, he wasn’t in the mood.  
  
Underneath that was an envelope with the Four Season’s in Paris as the return address, and Draco opened it immediately. This would, at the very least, be entertaining.  
  
There was a heavy piece of folded stationary inside, and when he opened it a photograph of the Eiffel Tower slid into his hand. It wasn’t a normal photo, however; there was a sort of soft, ectoplasmic swirl covering most of the right hand side of the photo. He turned it over and saw it was dated a couple of days before. He studied the image as the mist appeared from the right, writhed and curled, then started over again in a continuous loop. Frowning, he opened the paper.  
  


> _Darling,_  
>  Theo and I are having a lively debate about what that is. I say it’s the ghost of some poor, lost soul who jumped to their death from the tower after being jilted by a lover. And yes, I know it doesn’t really look like a ghost, but bear with me. In response to my very romantic telling of my theory, complete with vapid sighs and crocodile tears, my husband said I was bonkers and it looked more like I had blown my cigarette smoke in front of the camera lense. (Which - I may have.)
> 
> He says I’m a mad bint who clearly needs psychotropic potions, and I say he’s a romance starved troll who wouldn’t know a good theory if it pissed on his shoes. Who’s right? Me? Thank you, love. I knew I could count on you!
> 
> In other news, and even while lounging in Paris wearing little more than a tea towel and periodically screwing my husband’s brains out, (do try not to sick up, dear) I still have my ear to the ground and hear all of the very best gossip! At any rate, a little bird sang me the most interesting song this morning! And it involves someone you would do anything, including sell your soul, to get info about. Curious? Dying to know?
> 
> Good. I’ll tell you more when I see you on the fifteenth!
> 
> Love you madly!  
> Pans

  
  
Draco huffed in exasperation. “You obnoxious tease.” He tossed the letter and photo, along with the rest of the mail, onto the sofa, then picked up his groceries and walked into his tiny kitchen.  
  
He knew his mother didn’t understand why he wanted to live in his crappy little flat in Muggle London instead of in the Manor. She kept trying to get him to move back home, to ‘honor his commitments’. She didn’t seem to understand that was exactly what he was trying to do.  
  
He lived in the Muggle neighborhood because no one harassed him there. Even ten years after the war, walking through Diagon Alley with his distinctive blond hair was no picnic. This little dump was two blocks from the Muggle entrance to the hospital, and he could literally be home and in bed within ten minutes of ending his shift. It was also close enough to the Leaky Cauldron entrance to Diagon that he could be at Freddie’s House within fifteen, so it was centrally located between the two. It was also the first place he’d lived in the whole of his life that was  _his_. Yes, it was ugly and the furniture was ratty, but he could come home and kick off his shoes by the door if he chose, or fall asleep studying medical texts on the couch, and there was no one there to fuss at him. His mother still didn’t understand that he was not ‘going into trade’ as she put it, but building himself a profession. Nor was he going to ‘marry and beget a Malfoy heir’. He’d told her he was unapologetically gay, but she’s always been very good at hearing only what she wanted to. At some point, she was merely going to have to adjust. He was going to be a paediatric Healer, a good one, and if she didn’t understand his need to make reparations where he could, well – he had no idea what to say at this point to get through to her.  
  
Putting a quart of milk, a dozen eggs and a pound of gouda in the refrigerator, Draco grabbed an apple from the bag and walked over to the couch, picking up the post then flopping inelegantly across the cracked but buttery soft leather. It was a horrible sort of dark olive green, but he’d never reclined on another piece of furniture that felt quite as much as if it were designed to give in all of the right places. He tossed an  _incendio_  into the fireplace, kicked off his shoes, and stacked his stocking feet on the arm of the couch, one on top of the other. Even his bones felt tired; there were three new cases of J.W.I. at Freddie’s, but fortunately none of them were under three, and he’d already got them all on the potions that would do the most good.  
  
It was early Sunday evening, he didn’t have to be at the hospital until two the following afternoon, and George had told him to ‘go home and get some sleep’, which was precisely what he planned to do. He took a bite of his apple, found it sweet and crisp, and sighed in contentment. He had groceries, he didn’t have to go anywhere, and nearly twenty four hours to himself unless there was an emergency at the orphanage. In the scheme of things, for him this was about as good as it got.  
  
Pansy’s note was on top of the other post, and he read it again absently.  
  


> _…a little bird sang me the most interesting song this morning! And it involves someone you would do anything, including sell your soul, to get info about…_

  
  
Draco frowned, chewing thoughtfully. Someone he would do anything to get info about? Well, there was only one person he could think of that the statement could apply to, and there hadn’t been anything new about him in… years. Nearly certain this was just another attempt on her part, much like the Christmas card, to wind him up, Draco chose to ignore it.  
  
He tossed the note on his scarred coffee table before picking up a novel he’d been trying to get into for weeks. Pansy was a good friend and he loved her, but he just wasn’t interested in the latest Slytherin gossip.  
  


~***~

  
  
Harry felt full to bursting. Molly had cooked what looked like every dish in her considerable culinary arsenal, and he had felt obligated to try them all, Especially when she met him at the Floo with hearfelt hugs and apologies for ‘falling asleep on him the day before’. He’d exchanged a look with Hermione, then returned Molly’s hug with assurances that ‘it didn’t matter’. He still felt a bit guilty about his part in tricking her, but not very; she looked so much more rested that he was ready to agree that ‘the ends justified the means.’  
  
He sat on a rickety bench in the Burrow’s rear yard, staring out over the partially frozen pond. It would have been uncomfortably cold but for the hot chocolate between his palms. The house was full to bursting; Bill and Fleur and their two girls, Percy and his wife and their two boys, Gin and Neville and Alice, Ron and Hermione and Rose, and Arthur and Molly. They had all been crammed with him around the magically enlarged kitchen table. George was still at Freddie’s house, but he was expected any time.  
  
Harry loved them with all of his heart, and his reunion with many of them was emotional. He and Ginny had never got back together at the end of the war, but he knew he’d owed her more of an explanation that to simply disappear. Fortunately she was so happy with Neville that their compatibility was obvious, and she greeted him like a long lost brother. Percy wasn’t near the stuck up prig he’d been when he was younger, and Fleur and Bill’s girls were gorgeous. His reunion with Arthur had been reassuring; like Molly he looked older and more grey, but his good humor and his fascination with all things Muggle remained unchanged. They spent half an hour discussing the meaning and correct wearing angle of a cowboy hat, and he was fascinated with Harry’s boots. Harry loved them all so much; being back with them brought him a soul deep sense of rightness he hadn’t felt in a decade.  
  
But after about four hours, he had to take a break; he wasn’t used to the level of noise a Weasley family gathering generated any longer. He’d lived where silence was so complete you could hear the cry of a lone coyote five miles away. He withstood it until his head was pounding, but then he’d surrepticiously grabbed a cup of cocoa and now sat, staring up at the stars. The constellations looked different here than in Montana, but they were no less vivid. What was very different was the sound of the garden gnomes bickering nearby in their incomprehensible language, and he grinned.  
  
“There you are.”  
  
He looked up and saw George making his way across the yard.  
  
“Hey, George.”  
  
“I come to a party and the guest of honor seems to have disappeared.” One of George’s ginger brows arched ironically. “Something he has a bit of a background with, come to think of it.”  
  
Harry chuckled. “Just as far as the back yard this time.”  
  
“That’s as far as you’d have got anyway.” George sat next to him on the bench. “Mum put anti-apparition wards around the yard so you couldn’t go sneaking off again.”  
  
Harry snorted. “She did not.”  
  
“Wouldn’t put it past her, Mate.” George took the mug from Harry’s hand and stole a sip. “Mum’s gone real dotty in her old age. No telling what she’s going to do.” He handed Harry back his cocoa, then shuddered. “Merlin’s adenoids, Harry, it’s bollock’s withering cold out here.” He took out his wand and cast a warming charm, and instantly the air around them grew more comfortable. “Why didn’t you do that, if you were determined to sit out here?”  
  
Harry shrugged self-consciously. “I haven’t done much magic in the last few years, George. I wasn’t living in a magical community.”  
  
George studied his face. “Have you done any magic at all since you got back?” Harry hesitated, then shook his head. “Well, there’s no time like the present, Mate. Get your wand out.” His arch look was amused. “And no, that wasn’t a proposition.”  
  
Harry snorted, then hesitated. But after a moment of expectant silence he pulled his wand from the sleeve of his jumper. It had been so long since he carried it with him everywhere that he’d been very aware of its weight against his inner arm all afternoon. There was a faint, familiar hum moving through the wood, and he stroked it with his thumb.  
  
“Well, don’t just pet it, Harry,” George said with an exasperated laugh. “Cast something.”  
  
Harry didn’t have any idea what to start with, until the noise from the gnomes caught his attention again. He remembered a mild stinging jinx Ginny had taught him, and he pointed his wand and muttered the spell. Instantly, a ball of pale orange light shot from the end of his wand and moments later there was the sound of outraged squeaking and then silence.  
  
George laughed and patted him on the back. “See? It’s like riding a bike. It’ll all come back to you.”  
  
Harry smirked and sleeved his wand. “So, how are the kids?”  
  
George sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. “Well, we’re up to ten cases now. Fortunately no more of the babies, but it still makes for a miserable bunch of whiny children.”  
  
“Do you have enough help?” Harry asked impulsively.  
  
“For now, but if we get any more…” George glanced at him. “Are you volunteering?”  
  
Harry thought about it for merely moments. “Sure. I haven’t got anything else to do.”  
  
George chuckled. “Harry, Mate, we’re talking whiny, runny nosed, coughing, crying, feverish bratlings, each and every one of them a demanding little pain in the arse.”  
  
Harry shrugged. “I like kids,” he said. “And I think what you’re doing – you’ve given those kids a home, George. And that’s more than a lot of other people are doing.” He reached over and squeezed his knee. “Fred would’ve been proud to have his name on it.”  
  
George cleared his throat roughly. “Thanks, Harry.” He studied Harry’s face for several seconds. “You know what? If the idea of a bunch of sick kids truly doesn’t send you running the other way, then we really could use an extra pair of hands.”  
  
“Tomorrow morning, then?” Harry asked, a sense of anticipation he hadn’t felt in a long time beginning to bubble in his stomach.  
  
George grinned at him. “Sure, that would be fine. Just – don’t say I didn’t warn you. These kids won’t be impressed you’re Harry Potter.”  
  
Harry returned his smile. “They sound like my kind of people.”


	11. Fancy Meeting You Here

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt for this part:

Harry dressed in jeans and a jumper Ron loaned him the next morning, slipping on the trainers he’d already borrowed, which fit once Hermione performed a sizing charm on them. He couldn’t help a grin when Ron, who had always been broader through the shoulders and chest, thought Hermione had performed the same spell on his t-shirt and jumper when they pulled snug across Harry’s shoulders.  
  
“No,” Hermione said, grinning in amusement. “Just the trainers, Ronald. Well, and I took a couple of inches off of the hem of the jeans. You are still taller than he is. But, apparently manual labor translates into bigger muscles than working in a joke store.”  
  
“What’s muscles?” Rose asked around a piece of toast with strawberry preserves on it.  
  
“Don’t talk with your mouth full, please,” Hermione scolded. “And roll up your sleeve and show her, Harry.” Harry could see the impish twinkle in her eyes, and shot her a quelling look. Ron made a face at her back but Harry couldn’t help but notice he looked chagrined.  
  
“There are compensations, Mate,” Harry said quickly. “I know you have to make more money than I did.”  
  
Ron looked moderately heartened by that. When he left for the shop a few minutes later, he cuffed Harry on the shoulder and kissed both Hermione and Rose goodbye before he stepped into the kitchen Floo.  
  
“You’re rotten.” Harry took a seat at the table across from Rose.  
  
“Me?” the little girl squeaked.  
  
“No, your mummy. You’re sweet as peaches.” He grabbed her little hand and kissed it, and she giggled.  
  
Hermione chuckled as she set a plate in front of him that contained bacon and eggs. “I was teasing him. Besides, it serves him right. He always took entirely too much pleasure in the fact he was bigger than you were. It makes a difference when you’re fed the way Ron was during your formative years.”  
  
Harry didn’t respond. They’d had more than one conversation about how the Dursley’s treated him, including the way he was, or more often wasn’t, fed. He tucked into his breakfast.  
  
“So, are you going to Freddie’s House this morning, then?” Hermione sat next to him, a cup of coffee cradled between her palms.  
  
“I’m going to drop over to see Andromeda and Teddy first, but then yes.”  
  
“Oh, did she respond to your owl?”  
  
Harry nodded. “She was more gracious than I deserve. Not sure what I’m going to say to him. Or her either, for that matter.”  
  
She gave him a soft look. “Just tell her the truth, Harry. In regards to Teddy? He’s a wonderful, perfectly charming little boy. He’s been raised by a grandmother who adores him, and extended family who’s taken an active interest in him. He hasn’t been neglected.” One of her brows lifted in a teasing arch. “Besides, there isn’t a ten year old in our world that wouldn’t be thrilled to have Harry Potter be his godfather. You tamed a dragon.”  
  
Harry snorted. “That was a long time ago, Hermione.”  
  
“You’re still the same person.”  
  
“I haven’t done any magic in – well, it’s been a while.”  
  
“Oh, I don’t know,” she said. “I understand you still managed a pretty mean stinging hex on a garden gnome.”  
  
Harry rolled his eyes. “You know I’d forgotten that there’s no such thing as a secret amongst Weasley’s.”  
  
“You hexed a gnome.” She smirked. “They were thrilled.”  
  
“Why did you hex a gnome, Uncle Harry?” Rose asked, frowning thoughtfully.  
  
“Yes, Uncle Harry.” Hermione hid her grin behind her coffee cup. “Why did you hex a gnome?”  
  
He narrowed his eyes at her, then turned to Rose. “Because he was being very rude,” he said seriously. “He was interrupting your Uncle George.”  
  
She chewed slowly, then nodded. “I think they’s rude, too,” she said finally. “Can you teach me how to hex them?”  
  
“Oh, I don’t think so, no.” Hermione stood and scooped up her daughter’s plate, gesturing toward the hallway with her head. “Time for you to get dressed, Missy. I have to drop you at day care and then get to work.”  
  
“Okay.” Rose hopped down from her seat, scooted around the table and yanked on Harry’s sleeve. He looked down at her, and she gestured him closer, then kissed him loudly on the cheek. “See you later, Uncle Harry.”  
  
Harry watched her go, then exhaled softly and looked up at Hermione. She was watching him with full, knowing eyes.  
  
“I’m in love with your daughter, Hermione.”  
  
She gently nudged his shoulder with her hip as she walked toward the sink. “I think the feeling is mutual.”  
  


~***~

  
  
“You’re feeling better, aren’t you?”  
  
Draco bent when Monty lifted his chubby little arms, and lifted him onto his hip.  
  
“Oh, yes, you’re much cooler.”  
  
“His temp has been down since this morning,” Sheila said with fond smile as she watched Draco rock in place with the child on his hip. “Still has a runny nose and a cough, but at least he’s cooled down.”  
  
“The respiratory symptoms will last another couple of days.” Draco gently pushed back Monty’s golden brown fringe. The baby grabbed his hand, blue eyes shining, and started sucking on his index finger. “Oh, let’s not do that, shall we?”  
  
“He’s putting everything in his mouth right now.” Sheila held out her hands for Monty, and he went to her with a happy gurgle. “I think he must be cutting teeth.”  
  
“So it would seem.” Draco made a face and cast a cleansing and disinfecting spell on his hand.  
  
“Have you seen Helena?” Sheila asked.  
  
Draco nodded. “She’s doing much better.” He gave her a reassuring smile. “She should be able to come home in a day or two. As long as we don’t have any new cases, we should be out of the woods.”  
  
“That’s good to hear.” Sheila gave him a weary smile. “I love the darlings, but I could certainly do with a good nights sleep. And I imagine you could too, Healer.”  
  
Draco sighed, and nodded. “It’s been a difficult year. Hopefully we’ll have everyone on the mend before Christmas.” He cast a quick  _tempus_  and ’10:45’ flashed in the air. His shift at the hospital began at eleven; he’d have to finish up and go if he was going to be on time.  
  
He gave Sheila a few more instructions, then made a quick stop to check in on the older children. Once he was assured that they, like Monty, were recovering, he went in search of George. He found him having a cup of tea in the kitchen.  
  
“There you are!” George smiled expansively.  
  
“Good Morning.” Draco paused just inside the door.  
  
George held up his cup. “Care for a cuppa?”  
  
“No, thank you.”  
  
“How’s young Monty this morning?”  
  
Draco snorted. “Feeling well enough he was using my fingers as a chew toy.”  
  
George laughed. “The boy is going to have a full set of teeth before we know it. Sure I can’t convince you to join me in a nice Earl Grey?”  
  
Draco shook his head. “I’m running a bit short on time. I do want to go over a couple of things with you, though. Care to walk me out?”  
  
“Certainly.”  
  
George fell into step with him, and they climbed the stairs toward the sitting room on the main floor.  
  


~***~

  
  
Harry bounded up the three brick steps that led to the front door of Freddie’s House, a spring in his step. The weather was cold and clear, the sun was bright on the snow, and Harry felt better than he had in a very long time.  
  
As usual, Hermione was right; Andromeda had been warm and welcoming, and Teddy had looked at Harry as if he’d single handedly hung the moon. He vowed, while sitting on the floor playing a modified game of exploding snap that involved Star Wars action figures and ginger bread men, that he’d never let this little boy down again as long as he lived. He’d already made plans to pick him up and take him in to see the London Eye later in the week. When he’d left, Andromeda had embraced him and whispered, “welcome home” in his ear. In that moment, all had been right in his world.  
  
Harry rang the bell and heard it echo through the big house. A cold breeze lifted his fringe and tousled his hair, and he stuck his hands into the pockets of the black hoodie and hunched his shoulders, shivering. A moment later, he heard quick footsteps approaching from the other side of the door, and it was opened to reveal a middle-aged woman wearing a smart suit, her dark hair pulled to her nape in a soft chignon.  
  
“Hi. I’m here to see George. I’m…”  
  
“Harry Potter,” she breathed.  
  
He’d seen the moment she recognized him, and heard the stunned awe in her voice. Her dark eyes went very wide, and the color drained from her face.  
  
“Yeah.” Harry held out his hand. “And you are -- ?”  
  
“Oh!” She made a flustered little motion with her hands. “I’m Merthilda Mackavoy. I’m the Matron here at Freddie’s House. I meet with prospective adoptive parents and do background checks and – none of that is remotely interesting to you, is it?”  
  
Her pale cheeks flushed with embarrassed color, and Harry gave her an understanding smile. “That’s not true, I’m very interested. But I’m also really cold, so -- ”  
  
“Oh, for Merlin’s sakes!” Merthilda stepped back. “Please come in, Mr. Potter.”  
  
Harry stepped into the entryway and felt a rush of soothing warmth that smelled of beeswax and cinnamon, and immediately reminded him of the Burrow. He wasn’t four feet inside the door before he could see the differences. Where the Burrow was a lovely hodgepodge of rooms added of necessity and held together with spells and a prayer, Freddie’s House had at one time been a lovely townhome. The floors weren’t perfect, but they gleamed, and the bannisters on the staircase that climbed up and away to his right shone with polish. The entryway itself wasn’t wide, much as the one at Grimmauld Place had been, but to his left through open pocket doors was a warm, welcoming sitting room.  
  
The furniture was beige and the accents were cranberry, and there was a festively decorated lit tree in the corner. The wallpaper showed a print of wintery grey trees above a white mantle, and Harry found himself wondering if it was magical paper and reflected the seasons. He’d seen that somewhere once, and been fascinated by it. There was a fire burning merrily in the fireplace, and a jolly Merry Christmas sign spelled out in assorted blocks of different sizes on shelves above the mantle. All in all, it was one of the homiest rooms Harry had ever seen and he felt himself drifting toward the fire.  
  
“If you’d like to wait here,” Merthilda said, twisting her fingers nervously, “I’ll go and see what George is up to.”  
  
“That would be great,” Harry started, but the sound of men’s voices echoed down the hallway, and he turned.  
  
George came into view first, and Harry smiled and took a step toward him, but then stopped. The man close behind him was slender and pale, wearing the mint green robes of a Healer. Harry had only ever seen hair that color on two people in the whole of his life, and one of them was dead.  
  
He was looking at the floor, speaking softly, but even at that angle there was no mistaking the angular features and the set of the square shoulders.  
  
“Malfoy?”  
  
The fair head jerked up, and Malfoy halted abruptly, staring, eyes the color of a silvery arctic frost widening in his pale face. Harry felt every bit of moisture leeched from his mouth and every bit of feeling leave his fingers and toes. He saw Malfoy’s full lips part, then read ‘Potter?’ on them, a silent question.  
  
“Ah, Harry!” George came forward, hand extended, apparently blissfully oblivious to the sudden rampant undercurrents in the room. “You made it. Here, I believe you know our resident Healer, Draco Malfoy?”  
  
The two men stared at one another in stunned silence, and George, apparently beginning to cotton on, looked back and forth between them, much as he might if they’d been playing tennis. After a tense moment, he clapped his hands then rubbed his palms together  
  
“All righty, then. Now that the re-introductions are out of the way, who’s up for a drink? I know I am.”  
  
Harry wasn’t much of a drinker, but in that moment he thought he might just need one.


	12. Ah, You Again

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt for this part: 

“It’s a little early for alcohol, isn’t it, Mr. Weasley?” Merthilda’s tone was a touch austere. George lifted both brows as he looked at her.  
  
“Not for anything, Merthi, cuz you do a great job and all but… perhaps you might consider removing that stick from your arse?”  
  
Merthilda’s expression was so shocked and comically outraged that Harry was unable to bite back his startled laugh. He looked at Malfoy and thought he saw humor flash over the starkly handsome features.  
  
“I’ll have to take a rain check, George,” Malfoy said without meeting anyone’s eye. “My shift at the hospital begins at eleven, and I doubt the children would appreciate firewhiskey on my breath. Not to mention the senior mediwitch. At any rate, I really need to go. I’ll… see you later.” He started for the door, and Harry would never be able to explain why, but he was desperate for Malfoy to actually look at him again. He took a step after him.  
  
“Malfoy.”  
  
He stopped as if Harry had tossed a lasso around his waist, freezing in place before slowly turning, face impassive. He looked supremely unaffected, but for the pink flooding his cheeks. After a moment, he arched a pale brow, waiting.  
  
“It’s good to see you.”  
  
Malfoy blinked, still almost preternaturally still. After what felt like a small lifetime, he nodded, then turned and walked out the front door.  
  
Watching him go, Harry felt like the biggest idiot in the world. Why had he bothered to say anything? It was Malfoy; what was he expecting? He could never explain why the cool dismissal had made his heart ache.  
  
“Well, that went well, don’t you think?” George said brightly, dropping his arm around Harry’s shoulders. “Come on, Merthi, let’s go buy young Harry a cup of coffee and fill him in on what he can do to help around here.” Harry finally turned his eyes from the front door to see Merthilda standing nearby, a tight look on her face and her arms crossed over her chest. “Aw, don’t be like that,” George said, hauling Harry with him. He dropped his other arm around her shoulders. “You know I was teasing. Mostly. And I’ve a box of Christmas Crackers I’ve been toying with, and a box of Tom Smith’s; you can do me a huge favor and let me know what you think of mine in comparison to the Muggle version.”  
  
“Oh, George, I don’t know.” Merthilda tried to dig her heels in, but it did her no good.  
  
“Oh, come along now, come along; lots to do, lots to do.”  
  
As if he were being blown along by a force of nature, faintly alarmed at the prospect of George’s crackers, Harry was propelled to a flight of stairs that apparently led to the kitchen.  
  


~***~

  
  
Draco didn’t stop moving until he was standing in the Healer’s lounge on the fifth floor of St. Mungo’s. He moved along the streets to the entrance to the hospital, then briskly to the lifts and up to the fifth floor without slowing or allowing himself to think about what had just happened. His heart pounded the entire time and his skin felt too tight, but if he actually stopped and thought about what had occurred, he was fairly certain he’d fly apart in a million pieces.  
  
Once he was in the locker room off of the lounge, and he had to stop the forward momentum, the events in the lobby of Freddie’s House came rushing back to him. He closed his eyes, the miserable moan he’d been biting back since he rushed out of the front door rising from his throat.  
  
“Stupid, stupid, stupid,” he muttered, bumping his forehead against the metal locker with each word. “I looked so fucking  _stupid_.”  
  
Ever since he’d shaken Potter’s hand outside of the courtroom after his trial, and there had been an undeniable physical reaction, he’d haunted Draco’s dreams. Pansy wasn’t exaggerating the fact he had Potter on the brain, and when he’d disappeared it almost felt like a family member died. He listened to every rumor over the last decade, and with every ‘possible’ Potter sighting, his hopes went up. He didn’t know what the spark between them meant; there was never any outward indication Potter was gay. In fact, before he’d gone missing, everyone was convinced Potter would marry the Weaslette. But then he disappeared, and she married Longbottom, and Draco manufactured elaborate fantasies where Potter would return and confess he hadn’t ever actually hated him, that it had been unresolved sexual tension, that he’d always wanted…  
  
What? Draco knew he was being ridiculous. They’d been eleven; Draco knew he’d been desperate for Potter’s attention, and Potter thought he was a spoiled, obnoxious little shit heel. Which, in all honesty, he had been. But at eleven, unable to make Potter his friend, he’d gone out of his way to get any attention he could manage. The fact it was all negative felt better than nothing at the time.  
  
So, Potter was back. He’s knees failed him, and he sat heavily on the bench between the rows of lockers. Not only was he back, but…Gods, the way he looked!  
  
Draco closed his eyes, a vision of Potter as he was now superimposed on the inside of his eyelids. Potter had always seemed short to Draco, shorter than he was at least, but now they were almost eye to eye. His hair looked windblown and there was tawny color on his skin, and his eyes were such a vivid green Draco wondered how he could have forgotten for even a moment how luminescent they were. And his body; the dark hooded sweatshirt he wore showed quite clearly how broad his shoulders had become, and his hips were narrow, his thighs sturdy looking in the fitted jeans. He hadn’t allowed himself to stare at the front of the faded jeans, but he’d wanted to. Gods, how he’d wanted to.  
  
Draco let his mind drift back over how Potter appeared again and he could see it vividly, from the faintly pointed boots, up surprisingly long legs to the trim waist and broad shoulders, shown so clearly in the black hooded sweatshirt…  
  
Draco’s eyes shot open and he sat up straight. A black hooded sweatshirt. Potter had been wearing a black hooded sweatshirt, and suddenly all of the pieces fell into place. The shadowy man in the Leaky, and the one embracing Father Christmas, and the one walking the little liver spotted dog. It had all been Potter.  
  
Of course, he thought, dropping his face into his hands with a weak, helpless laugh. It had always been Potter.


	13. Entertaining the Troops

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt for this part:

Harry was forcefully reminded over the next few hours that he didn’t have much experience with children. None at all, really. After George spent a few minutes describing what they were doing for the little ones who were down with the infection, he told Harry he thought the best use of his talents might be in helping out in the temporary play room. That hadn’t sounded too bad. How hard could it be, he thought? They were all under the age of eleven, and just needed entertaining.  
  
He had no intention, ever, of telling anyone how completely unprepared he was for helping to ‘entertain’ sixteen children between the ages of six months and eleven years. The older boys looked at him with suspicion, and the older girls looked at him and sighed, something he found uniquely disconcerting. But then he’d found it disconcerting when he’d been an eleven year old boy and girls had mooned over him. The reasons for that reaction hadn’t become clear to him until much later.  
  
The littlest ones, however, seemed to be fascinated by him. For some reason, the little buggers liked him, and it wasn’t because of the fact he was ‘Harry Potter’. They couldn’t know that. They just knew he was new, and he was interesting, and before he knew it he had three toddlers, all about two years old, vying for his attention.  
  
He sat on the floor on a blanket, playing a modified game of blocks with two little toe-headed boys named Barrett and Barkley. They’d been left on the doorstep in a basket at six weeks, and as was the case with many twins, they had a language all their own no one else could understand. But they liked Harry, and every time he made the blocks levitate with his wand then settle to form another moving picture, they ooo’d and ahh’d and laughed. It was good for his ego. He’d been doing more magic over the last 24 hours, and it felt more and more second nature all of the time, (‘it’s like a riding a broom’, Ron said. ‘you just need to get back on it’), but he still felt a bit rusty. So the little boys’ unequivocal, and very vocal, approval made him feel good about himself.  
  
He’d been at it about an hour when another child shyly approached, her fingers in her mouth and her blue eyes wide. She had dark curls that cascaded around her face and shoulders, and her cheeks and lips were very pink. Harry wasn’t immediately aware of her, but when he caught a glimpse of her pink jumper in his peripheral vision, he paused and turned.  
  
“Hello,” he said. “Would you like to play?”  
  
She smiled shyly around her fingers, but didn’t come any closer.  
  
“That’s Olivia,” one of the matron’s, Amelia, provided. “She’s almost painfully shy.”  
  
Harry smiled at her. “That’s okay. I was shy when I was little, too. Would you like to come closer?” She stared at him, then shook her head, her fingers still between her lips. “That’s okay; you don’t have to.” He gave her what he hoped was an encouraging look, and then turned back to the boys.  
  
Olivia crept closer as the next hour or so went by. She avidly watched each new picture the blocks formed, and watched the boy’s crow and giggle. She even smiled around the ever present fingers between her lips. Still, when she finally settled herself in Harry’s lap as if sitting on him was the most natural thing in the world, to say he was startled was an understatement. He stiffened, but after a few moments where she just sat leaning back against him, Harry lifted his wand and went back to rearranging blocks.  
  
She smelled like talcum powder, her slight weight was warm where she leaned against his stomach, and he found her trust in him humbling. Clearly, she’d been trying to make up her mind about him all morning. Apparently, she had. He left his free arm at his side so as not to frighten her no matter how much he wanted to hold her, and made the blocks form a picture of a pink pony with wings. He thought the smile she turned and sent up to him might be the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen in his life.  
  


~***~

  
  
Draco cursed the wizards in charge of the seasonal weather project under his breath as he made his way from St. Mungo’s to Freddie’s. Apparently, they had designated the thirteenth of December as the day the wizarding world would receive its final snow storm before Christmas. According to the  _Daily Prophet_ , six inches would fall between noon and midnight. What they hadn’t counted on was the weather spell being so enthusiastic it would spill out into Muggle London as well, with at least three inches coating buildings and automobiles, sending Muggles running for cover. That meant, for Draco, there wasn’t a route he could take on foot between St. Mungo’s and Freddie’s House that didn’t have him walking through a blizzard. He could Apparate, but found it left him disoriented, and he didn’t like to risk it when he was going to be seeing patients. So he walked. By the time he climbed the three steps to the front door he was damp and out of sorts, and he stomped the snow from his boots before letting himself in the front door.  
  
“Ah, here he is!”  
  
He looked up with a scowl as he removed his outer robes and cast drying spells on his boots. George paused at the bottom of the stairs, crossing his arms as he leaned against the large, ornately carved newel post.  
  
“Such a face he has on this afternoon. Who pissed in your porridge, Healer?”  
  
“Charming. As usual, you have a way with words, Weasley.”  
  
George spread his hand on his chest, feigning offense, but his eyes were sparkling. “I’m hurt, Healer. Truly, you wound me.”  
  
“I’ll wound you,” Draco muttered, sleeving his wand.  
  
“Ah, but then you could heal me. One stop shopping, as it were.”  
  
Draco shook his head as he approached him. “Clearly, you were dropped on your head as a child.”  
  
George nodded agreeably. “Probably more than once.”  
  
Draco sighed, some of his irritation melting away in face of George’s unshakable good humor. “Have you any idea who was in charge of this weather monstrosity?”  
  
George snorted. “Officially, according to Dad, it was the Weather Council. Unofficially, it was good old Morty Levesque.”  
  
Draco rolled his eyes. “Mortimer Levesque? He’s two hundred if he’s a day.”  
  
“I was actually thinking more like three hundred.” George smirked. “If it makes you feel any better, the Minister is less than pleased.”  
  
“It would only make me feel better if after this they would order a shockingly out of season heat wave.”  
  
“What, and lose this lovely, Christmassy ambiance?”  
  
Draco snorted. “So,” he said, deciding it was time to change the subject, “how are our patients this afternoon?”  
  
“I think it safe to say we’re out of the woods,” George said, stepping aside then joining Draco as he climbed the stairs.  
  
Draco shook his head. “Not yet, we aren’t. There’s a ten day to two week incubation period, remember? You won’t be out of the woods unless you make it to the weekend without another case. But I am encouraged to know there aren’t any new instances.”  
  
“Yeah, I’d like to be able to go back to my business before we hit the last week before Christmas. And I don’t want to even think about dealing with the Hogwarts kids coming home if we still have quarantine areas.”  
  
Draco slipped his hands into his pockets and nodded. “I can certainly see how that would be problematic. Might be a better idea to consider contacting the Headdmistress and having them stay over the holidays.”  
  
George grimaced. “I really don’t want to do that. This is the only home they have, Draco. I hate to tell them they can’t come here.”  
  
“I know how you feel, George. But we don’t know how many of them have been exposed previously. Some of them simply don’t have complete enough medical histories.”  
  
They arrived on the second floor. “Well, according to McGonagall, there haven’t been any cases at Hogwarts this year, so at least none of them have been exposed there. If we make it to Monday without another sick kid, then…” He shrugged.  
  
“We’ll hope for that.”  
  
They’d arrived outside of the room where they usually held lessons and Draco was about to walk past when something inside caught his attention and he halted abruptly, staring.  
  
Harry Potter was sitting on the floor with three of the two year olds. The twins, Barrett and Barkley, and quiet little Olivia. He wasn’t surprised that the boys were laughing and crowing; they were cheerful, happy children, easily pleased and entertained. But Olivia startled him.  
  
Olivia had been abandoned in Diagon Alley when she was over a year old. She’d been found trying to eat out of the dumpster behind Fortescue’s, and had been so thin and weak Draco despaired of her survival. At a point where other children her age were beginning to talk, she knew only one word and repeated it, over and over. She’d made it, but she was still painfully withdrawn and so terribly shy he often wondered if she’d ever interact with others like a normal child. So to see Olivia curled up on Potter’s lap, laughing along with the twins, was startling at the very least.  
  
George paused beside him. “Ah, that’s our Harry. Always a hit with the ladies.” He snorted. “Interesting when you consider recent announcements.”  
  
Draco turned to him, frowning slightly. “What are you talking about?”  
  
“Oh, I think you’re going to have to figure that out for yourself.” He batted Draco playfully on the shoulder. “You’re a bright boy. It shouldn’t take you long.” He winked and walked away.  
  
“I don’t find you at all amusing,” Draco called after him.  
  
“Oh, sure you do,” George answered. “I’m nothing if not amusing.”  
  
Draco huffed, turning back to look through the door. Potter still sat where he’d been, entertaining the toddlers, so handsome it made him ache, damn him. Draco frowned, studying him. As far as he knew, there hadn’t even been an announcement about Potter’s return in the  _Prophet_. He couldn’t imagine what George was talking about, but he felt strongly he should.  
  


~***~

  
  
The boys were beginning to yawn and knuckle their eyes by the time Amelia arrived with their late afternoon bottles, announcing it was time for a nap. Harry waved as they were carried to cots set up along the wall.  
  
“Don’t you want a bottle?” he asked the little girl, leaning over her. She sighed, then looked up at him. She said something to him, very softly, and he leaned closer. “What did you say, love?”  
  
“Daddy,” she breathed, turning in his lap and resting her cheek against his chest. She closed her eyes and popped her thumb in her mouth.  
  
Harry stared at her, stunned. “Oh,” he said, laying his hand on her narrow little back, blinking quickly. It caught him off guard, the way it made his throat go tight and his heart ache. He’d always wanted kids, but he’d given up on the idea. To hear this innocent little person refer to him that way... “No, I’m not your Daddy, sweetheart. I’m just Harry, and --,” He stopped speaking and frowned. She felt so warm beneath his hand. Was it normal for a child to be this hot?  
  
He touched her forehead, his frown deepening. He didn’t know anything about childhood illnesses, but Olivia felt very warm to him.  
  
“Amelia,” Harry said. “Could you come here for a moment?”  
  
She was leaning over Barrett’s cot, and she covered him gently before coming to Harry’s side.  
  
“What is it, Mr. Potter?”  
  
Harry intentionally pitched his voice low. “Does she feel hot to you?”  
  
Alarm entered Amelia’s eyes before she ever touched Olivia’s face. When she did, she gasped.  
  
“Oh, dear,” she said, looking distraught. “Can you lift her, please?”  
  
“Of course.” Harry stood easily with the child in his arms.  
  
“Come with me, please.”  
  
Harry followed her out the door and to the staircase leading up a flight of stairs. “Where are we taking her?”  
  
“The nursery,” she answered. “Our Healer is upstairs with the babies.”  
  
Harry hesitated for a moment. “Healer – Malfoy?”  
  
She turned back. “Why, yes. Do you know him?”  
  
“You could say that.”  
  
“Please, Mr. Potter. We need to get Olivia up to him as quickly as possible.” She started up the stairs.  
  
Harry took a steadying breath. “Yes, of course.” He followed her.


	14. Signs

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt for this part:

Draco smiled at Monty, who was burbling incomprehensibly from his seat on a changing table Draco had pressed into service as an exam table. He propped his hands on the edge and leaned on them. “You don’t say? Well, that is quite a statement, but I’m sure you are correct, sir.” He turned to Sheila, who was watching them indulgently. “I’d say he’s well enough to be placed back in with the rest of the little ones, Sheila.” He straightened. “And I’m going to be able to release Helena on Monday.”  
  
“Oh, that is good news. It will be nice to have everyone back home.” She picked the little boy up.  
  
Draco rubbed the back of his neck. “And it will be nice to have a decent night’s sleep for a change.”  
  
“That means the Hogwarts children can come home as well, doesn’t it?”  
  
“They should be able to, yes.” Draco straightened, stretching the tired, sore muscles in his back.  
  
“Forgive me for saying so, Healer Malfoy, but you look about done in.”  
  
He gave Sheila a tired smile. “Well, between what’s been going on here, and the rush of cases at the hospital, it’s been --”  
  
“Healer Malfoy.”  
  
Draco turned as Amelia entered the room. Immediately he knew something was wrong; the alarm in her eyes was unmistakable. “What is it?”  
  
He didn’t have to wait for an answer; Potter entered the room on her heels, holding Olivia in his arms. One glance at the child showed the rusty red stain of fever on her cheeks and the glazed look in her eyes.  
  
“Oh, no,” Sheila murmured behind him, but he barely heard her.  
  
“Put her here, Potter.”  
  
Potter tried, but Olivia’s hands were twisted in his jumper and she didn’t appear to be interested in letting go. “Sweetie, you have to let me put you down so the Healer can check you,” he said gently.  
  
“Olivia, you know me,” Draco murmured. “Remember? Healer Malfoy?”  
  
The child shook her head vigorously, fingers clutching the blue jumper Potter was wearing, pressing her face against his chest. “Daddy,” she said, clinging to him.  
  
Draco’s gaze jerked to his eyes, and he was startled. “Astounding, Potter,” he said once he recovered his voice. “You’ve been here one day and already you’ve apparently adopted one of our charges.”  
  
Draco saw the blush that filled Potter’s cheeks. “She just… won’t let go.”  
  
“No matter.” Draco pulled his wand out and began to run the series of diagnostic tests that had become second nature over the last two weeks. When the results floated, vibrant red, over Olivia’s head, Draco closed his eyes for a moment. “Positive,” he said softly, and both Amelia and Sheila made sounds of distress.  
  
“What does that mean?” Potter frowned.  
  
“She has the infection,” Draco answered curtly. “Early stages, yet, but there’s no mistaking the results.” He turned to the two women. “How much of the fever and anti-infection potions do we have on hand?”  
  
“We may be a little short of the anti-infection, but we have plenty of the other,” Sheila answered.  
  
“Good. Let’s move Monty upstairs and find Miss Olivia some pajama’s, shall we? We may as well make her as comfortable as possible.” He pinned Potter with a look. “You do know how to change a child into jammies, do you not?”  
  
Potter gave him a mildly irritated look. “I’m quite sure I can manage.”  
  
Draco’s curled his lip. “We’ll see.”  
  


~***~

  
  
Changing the little girl into footed pajama’s wasn’t difficult. Trying to hold her still while she was given the potions was another thing altogether. Miss Olivia did not want them, and made no secret of the fact. The previously quiet child cried piteously, and the sound made Harry’s heart ache. When Malfoy had two doses batted from his hand by her flailing arms, he grimaced and held the next vial out to Harry. He looked up at Malfoy in surprise.  
  
“We don’t have enough to waste it,” he said, voice tight. “Perhaps she’ll take it from you.”  
  
Harry doubted that, but took the glass vial in his hand. He dampened his lips nervously, then gently eased her face from the front of his sweater where she’d re-anchored herself. “Olivia, you need to take the potion.” She shook her head, pressing her face deeper into the nap of his sweater. He took and released a deep breath. “Olivia,” he said more firmly, forcing a note of irritation into his voice. The child went very still, then leaned back and looked up at him. He almost lost his resolve completely when he saw the tears in her eyes and the quiver in her lower lip. Reminding himself she needed the potions, he gave her a stern look. “No more nonsense, now. You need to take this potion, and then we’ll see if Amelia doesn’t have something sweet for you.” He blinked, then looked up. “That’s all right, isn’t it?”  
  
Malfoy gave one curt nod.  
  
“I’ve candy canes, Olivia,” Sheila said, pulling one from the pocket of her apron. “If you take you potion, I’ll let you have bit.”  
  
Olivia took a shuddering breath, then looked up at Harry and opened her mouth.  
  
“Good girl,” he said warmly, dribbling it onto her tongue a little bit at a time. She made a face, but swallowed it all. “Well done, sweetheart,” he said when she was done. Sheila broke off a bit of the candy and handed it to him, and he held it up for the little girl. She took it and popped it into her mouth, giving a shuddering sigh as she leaned back in against his chest. Feeling Malfoy’s unblinking regard, Harry finally forced himself to look over at him.  
  
Malfoy was leaning against a dresser, feet crossed at the ankle and arms crossed over his chest. He looked lean and angular and tired, but still he managed an ironically cocked eyebrow.  
  
“Well done, Potter,” he said. “I do hope you’re prepared to do that again every four hours, all night long.”  
  
Surprised by the praise and certain he was blushing, Harry looked back down at the top of the little girl’s head. “Whatever it takes.”  
  


~***~

  
  
Harry sat in a wooden rocking chair, rocking slowly, Olivia sprawled, sound asleep, across his lap. She was still warm, but not as warm as she had been, and as she’d gone to bed Sheila had tucked a thick baby quilt over her and around her shoulders. It was like holding a tiny furnace, and Harry was a bit uncomfortable but it had taken so long for her to fall asleep he couldn’t bear to move her.  
  
Malfoy had sent an owl to St. Mungo’s, and the anti-infection potion arrived along with a note from the mediwitch of record telling him his request to hospitalize Olivia was going to have to be denied; there simply weren’t any beds left. He returned the parchment after scrawling his intention to remain at the orphanage until after the crisis had passed.  
  
“Crisis?” Harry asked, alarmed. Malfoy cocked that imperious eyebrow at him.  
  
“Reading over my shoulder, Potter?”  
  
Harry felt the uncomfortable flush fill his cheeks, but didn’t deny it.  
  
Malfoy sighed and ran his hand across the back of his neck. “The first twenty four hours is always critical with the younger ones. The ones over five or six seem to get on with little more than bad cold once the initial fever has passed. But the babies – ” He shook his head. “It can take root in their lungs, and then what would have been a runny nose and a cough turns into pneumonia.”  
  
“And that’s bad, isn’t it?”  
  
Malfoy nodded wearily. “It can be very bad. It can even be -- ,”  
  
“Don’t say it,” Harry cut in quickly, unable to bear hearing it. “What do we have to do for it not to – be very bad?”  
  
“Make sure the anti-infection potions are taken like clockwork,” Malfoy answered. “Syphon the fluid from her sinus’ and throat every few hours so it doesn’t drain into her lungs, and if you think the potion taking was no picnic, you should know they all hate that, even the subdued ones.” It was said wryly, but Harry didn’t doubt it for a moment. It sounded nasty. “We’ll need to make sure she eats, and she won’t want to. Force fluids, something else she won’t appreciate, either. And we need to comfort her.” He looked at the child, who at that point was curled against Harry’s chest, sniffling. “Something you seem to be doing rather admirably, much as it pains me to say it.”  
  
Harry had been warmed by the acknowledgment.  
  
Now it was three in the morning, according to the chiming of the grandfather clock in the downstairs entryway, the tones drifting almost eerily up the stairs. The lights in the nursery were dimmed, and the only sound was the slight squeaking of the chair as Harry rocked gently on the hardwood floor.  
  
He looked down into Olivia’s sleep slackened face, brushing a damp curl back from her sweaty brow. She was a beautiful little girl; she should be the apple of someone’s eye, their pampered, spoiled little princess. Not a nearly silent toddler being raised in an orphanage, no matter how kind the staff. Clearly, there was or had been a father somewhere; the only word she seemed to know was Daddy. Harry sighed and ran his fingers through her long curls. No child should have to grow up unloved, without their parents; he knew that only too well. He shifted her a bit closer, and glanced across the room. His gaze held on the man stretched out in another of the wooden rockers.  
  
This Draco Malfoy had been a revelation. Harry knew Malfoy had never really been a Death Eater, and he’d never been truly evil. His father had, but not Draco. He hadn’t the stomach for it. What surprised Harry, however, was how kind and compassionate his one-time enemy could be with a sick child. He’d had Harry continue to give Olivia the potions; he was the only one she’d take them from. But he’d done the syphoning of the mucus building in her sinus’ and chest, murmuring soothing words to her the entire time. He’d checked her temperature by pressing the backs of his long fingers against her forehead, and when it reached a level he thought was bordering on dangerous, he cast a cooling blanket around her that eventually brought her fever down. He’d spoken to her with tenderness and compassion, and it was a side of Draco Harry hadn’t seen in the whole of the time he’d known him. It was very attractive.  
  
Of course, it was more than his bed side manner that was attractive. Harry let his eyes linger. Malfoy had removed the Healer’s robes at some point, and beneath it he was wearing a white button down shirt tucked into fitted black trousers. On his feet were stylish half boots, and his belt had a small, elegant silver buckle. He didn’t know what he thought a pure blood wizard wore beneath his robes, but for some reason, he hadn’t imagined Muggle slacks and shirt. But Harry appreciated the choice.  
  
Harry knew Malfoy was slender, but he’d never really noticed before that his legs were much longer than his torso, and that his shoulders were surprisingly broad. The dress shirt clung to the muscles in his arms, which were firm but not overly bulky, elegant and defined. His stomach was flat, his hips narrow, and Harry allowed himself a moment to look at the soft bulge at the apex of slender, well-shaped thighs. As he slept, his elbow was braced on the arm of the chair, his fingers on his forehead and his thumb on his cheek, bracing his head. His hair was still so pale in looked almost white, but he’d abandoned the stark, straight combed back look he’d favored in school. Now his hair fell over his forehead and was soft around his face, and just brushed his collar. His face was angular but no longer pointed, and he’d finally grown into his features. All in all, he was a thoroughly attractive man, and Harry found himself undeniably drawn to him.  
  
And he wasn’t thick; looking at him, he could see how much Aaron resembled Malfoy. He’d been attracted to blonds his entire adult life, and he couldn’t help but wonder if all of it had started outside of the courtroom on the day he’d finally taken Malfoy’s hand.  
  
Olivia stirred restlessly, and Harry remembered she was due for another potion in a little over fifteen minutes. The vials were beside him on a short table near his elbow, and Harry glanced over. Sheila left peppermint for Harry to use in helping bribe the child into taking her medicine, and he noticed the two canes were crossed. The shepherd’s hooks at the top were forming the shape of a heart. He studied them for a few moments, smiling faintly.  
  
A candy cane heart. What could be more appropriate for Christmas?


	15. Electricity

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt for this post:

Draco’s walk from his flat in Muggle London toward Freddie’s House was more difficult than usual due to the four inches of snow on the ground, and everywhere he went it was all anyone was talking about. At the coffee shop where he indulged in his morning latte, (he’d become quite fond of caffeine during graduate school) and when he passed the bus stop; the Muggle’s were all agog at the sheer amount of snow. It wasn’t unheard of for there to be a dusting in London, but four inches at a time wasn’t the norm. And Draco was convinced that doddering Mortimer Levesque should be drawn and quartered.  
  
He’d left the orphanage at five that morning, leaving Potter still seated in the rocking chair with a sleeping Olivia in his lap. The man was bleary eyed and had a days growth of stubble on his square chin, and looked better than anyone that tired had any right to. He’d looked up as Draco murmured instructions to the matron’s, though why he thought they needed to be told what to do again was beyond him, and gave him a faint, tired smile. And damn it all if it hadn’t burned it’s way right down his spine and straight into his groin. Draco made his excuses and left quickly after that in order to avoid embarrassing himself. But the smile stayed with him, and he imagined that was what Potter looked like when he first woke in the morning. Sleepy, scruffy, with a ‘fancy a shag’ smile. Yes, Draco wanted to answer. Yes, I very much fancy a shag.  
  
Potter proved a quick study the night before, flying in the face of Draco’s assertions when they’d been younger that he wasn’t very bright. He was, on the contrary,  _very_  bright. He also had a natural affinity for children, at least for Olivia. Draco had been treating her for a year and never seen her warm up to anyone the way she had to Potter. And her calling him ‘Daddy’; that was a new development for the toddler, as well. Draco frowned. There were so many times he wished he could crawl into a child’s head and see what they saw, feel what they felt. This was just another of those.  
  
He passed a Muggle businessman who was trying to open the door of one of the red telephone boxes that dotted the streets near his flat. There was so much snow in front of the door that he couldn’t budge it. Feeling uncharacteristically magnanimous, Draco paused long enough to help him force open the door, then went on his way. What his father would say to that display he could only imagine. The thought made him smile.  
  
On arriving at the Leaky, Draco spared a wave for Tom on his way through, then went out the brick entrance to Diagon Alley. He had to go by the apothecary and order more potions for the hospital, then make his way to Freddie’s House. It was his normal day off from the hospital, and even though her fever had been down that morning and he knew the matron would have sent an owl if he was needed, he wanted to check in on Olivia again. Having slept a few hours and showered, he felt human again and wanted to see if the little girl was still responding favorably to the anti-infection potions, or if any other cases had manifest in his absence. And the idea he might see Potter again didn’t hurt.  
  
And here his mind had come back full circle to Potter. He shook his head at his own predictability. Had the man never reappeared, Draco would probably have eventually gotten over his infatuation. Or not, he admitted with a wry smirk. As Pansy was fond of saying; ‘a person never forgets their first, darling.’  
  
“He wasn’t my first anything,” Draco shot back.  
  
“Not true,” the smug bint said. “He was your first ‘man-crush’. Honestly, you could blame him for making you bent to begin with.”  
  
“Oh, shut up, you mad cow,” he’d muttered. But she hadn’t been wrong.  
  
The front door to Freddie’s House was standing open when Draco approached, and he frowned as he paused on the front doorstep.  
  
“Hello?” he called through the doorway.  
  
“Oh, hello, Draco dear.” Molly Weasley was standing near the staircase with two or three of the older children around her, sitting on pieces of luggage or lounging against the walls. That was when Draco remembered it was the day the kids came home from Hogwarts. He walked through the open door.  
  
“Do you want me to close this, Molly?” He gestured toward the door.  
  
“Oh, would you? Thank you, Draco. We brought the trunks in long enough to drop them off and for everyone to pack a few changes of clothes.”  
  
Draco smiled a greeting for the Hogwarts kids.  
  
“Hello, Healer Malfoy,” one of the girls responded.  
  
“Where are you all going?” He looked from face to face and noticed they seemed glum.  
  
“Well, until we get the all clear here, George felt it would be better if we didn’t introduce any more children to the house. He didn’t want them to have to stay at Hogwarts, either, so I’m taking half and Andromeda is taking half.”  
  
“You’re each taking five?” Draco’s brows shot up.  
  
“That’s no challenge for me.” Molly laughed. “I raised seven, remember? And Georgie is planning some outings so they can all be together a time or two, at least the ones who are well.”  
  
“Healer, why can’t we just stay here?”  
  
Draco turned and found a girl of about twelve looking up at him, eyes wide and somber. Her name was Janie, and she was a second year.  
  
“Because, Janie, you’re a pure-blood. You haven’t had J.W.I., and you’ve never had a vaccination, either.”  
  
“I know. It’s just that…” She shrugged. “This is home.”  
  
“I know.” Draco touched her shoulder briefly. “And I promise, as soon as the coast is clear, you can all come back. Until then, it’s better if you stay with Mr. and Mrs. Weasley.”  
  
“It will be fun,” Molly said brightly. The girl didn’t look reassured.  
  
Draco spared her a last, fleeting smile, then began to climb the stairs. He passed two boys levitating large suitcases.  
  
“Blimey, did you see that?” One said.  
  
“What?”  
  
“The man in the nursery with the babies. I couldn’t swear to it, mind you, but he looked just like  _Harry Potter_.”  
  
The second boy made a scoffing noise. “Harry Potter, in the nursery with the babies? You’re off your nut, you are.”  
  
Draco smirked and kept climbing.  
  
When he arrived at the nursery door, he paused and watched for a moment before making his presence known. Potter was still sitting in the rocking chair, and though Olivia’s romper had been changed and her hair combed, she was still clinging to him in her sleep. Potter wasn’t sleeping, but he looked very much as if he needed to.  
  
“Is that chair now permanently attached to your arse?”  
  
Potter looked up at him, and a slight smile curved his lips. “Feels like.”  
  
Draco paced toward him slowly. “Have you slept at all?”  
  
“I sleep when she does.”  
  
Draco looked pointedly at the little girl, then back into Potter’s green eyes, angling his head.  
  
“Well, I have been,” Potter said, looking slightly defensive. “It’s just -- ”  
  
“ _It’s just_  what?”  
  
“If I try to put her down, she cries.”  
  
“She’s sick, Potter. Sick babies cry.”  
  
“I know. I just…” He mumbled something, and Draco stepped closer.  
  
“’You just’ what?”  
  
A blush that Draco found very attractive washed over Potter’s cheekbones. “If she cries, I feel bad. She’s already congested, and crying just makes her nose more stopped up and then she can’t breathe through it, and… you think I’m barking, don’t you?”  
  
Potter had been watching Draco’s face, and some of his surprise must have shown on it. “No,” Draco answered quickly. “No, I don’t think you’re barking.” He paused. “Actually, I was thinking – it makes you uncommonly sensitive. Most people would never even consider it.”  
  
Harry looked down into the little flushed face. “I remember how it feels to cry that hard. How stuffed up your nose gets, how miserable you are.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “And I have no idea why I said any of that.”  
  
“You’re tired,” Draco murmured. Something in his chest ached for a little Potter who had cried that hard, and he shook himself. “Listen, Potter, why don’t you try handing her to me while she’s still asleep, and then go and get some rest yourself.”  
  
Potter looked up at him, then back down at the sleeping child. “What if she wakes up while I’m gone?”  
  
“She probably will,” Draco said, his voice even. “But if you don’t get some sleep soon, you’re going to be absolutely useless, and unless Olivia is very different than the other children, we’re in for another long night.”  
  
Potter’s eyes came back to his, and Draco saw something unexpected in them. “You’re staying?”  
  
Draco’s heart began to beat a bit faster. Potter looked – hopeful. “I had planned to, yes.”  
  
Potter nodded. “All right. I’ll go rest for a bit, but I’ll be back before tonight.”  
  
He stood cautiously, cradling the little girl gently. When Draco held out his arms to take her, Potter leaned forward to make the transfer.  
  
Potter had pushed up his sleeves, and his bare forearm brushed against Draco’s hand as the warm little body was exchanged between them. And just like the day in the courtroom at the Ministry, when their skin touched, Draco felt an undeniable jolt of – something. A tingling awareness that made the hair on his arms lift and the skin at his nape twitch.  
  
And he knew from the startled look Potter gave him he’d felt it, too.


	16. Magical Compatibility

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt for this part:

Harry entered through Ron and Hermione’s Floo, staggering a bit. He put his hand out and steadied himself on the mantle.  
  
“Uncle Harry!”  
  
Rose’s voice was bright and happy, and she wrapped herself around his knees, hugging tight. Harry gave her a wan smile, his hand lifting to caress her curls.  
  
“Give Uncle Harry a moment, sweetheart.” Hermione came to them and gently pulled her daughter’s arms from around Harry’s legs. She gave him a soft smile. “She’s missed you.”  
  
“I’ve missed her.” He took a step unsteadily, and Hermione frowned.  
  
“Are you all right?”  
  
He nodded. “Just really tired.” He stretched his back, and grimaced when there was a sharp pop. “And stiff. I spent the night in a wooden rocking chair.”  
  
“I heard about Olivia.” Hermione shook her head. “That poor little thing has had more than her share of grief. Here; you sit and I’ll make a pot of tea.”  
  
Harry lowered himself gratefully into an overstuffed chair near the fireplace, and as Hermione went to the kitchen Rose clamored into his lap. He settled her against his stomach with a wry grin, thinking he’d never had so many girls in his lap in twenty four hours. Ever, actually. He knew he was tired, because he had the insane urge to giggle. And he  _never_  giggled.  
  
Hermione returned with two cups of tea, gave her daughter an indulgent look and settled on the couch.  
  
“So, talk to me.”  
  
Harry sipped his tea and looked at her. “About what?”  
  
The look she gave him said ‘you’re being an idiot’ almost as clearly as the words would. “Gee, I don’t know, Harry. Perhaps about the somewhat surprising person who is George’s resident Healer?”  
  
Harry gave her a wry glance. “What about him?”  
  
She smirked into her cup. “If you think that’s going to work, you don’t remember me very well.”  
  
Harry couldn’t prevent his weary smile. “Yeah, I do seem to remember you being annoyingly persistent.”  
  
“So – talk to me.”  
  
Done prevaricating, Harry mused thoughtfully as he stared into his mug. “He’s – very different. Almost completely different.”  
  
“Well, he’s different, or it’s a side of him none of us ever saw.”  
  
“Or that,” Harry agreed. “He’s got a remarkable way with kids. They absolutely adore him.”  
  
“They do. Even Miss Rose loves him.”  
  
“Who, Mummy?” Rose asked brightly.  
  
“Healer Malfoy.”  
  
The little girl’s answering smile is bright. “Oh, yes. He’s wonderful.” She sighed theatrically. “And so handsome. Don’t you think so, Uncle Harry?”  
  
Harry blinked.  
  
“Yes, Uncle Harry,” Hermione said with a teasing grin. “Don’t you think Healer Malfoy is handsome?”  
  
“I think your mummy is a right pain in my backside, is what I think,” he grumbled, and Rose looked scandalized.  
  
“Uncle Harry! That’s not very nice!” She looked so stern he could only smile.  
  
“You’re right, Rosie my love, it isn’t. And in answer to your question; yes, I think Healer Malfoy is very handsome.”  
  
Completely forgetting his transgression against her mother, Rose sighed. “He’s like a prince in a fairy tale.”  
  
“Emphasis on ‘fairy’,” Hermione muttered, and Harry gave her a quick, mildly irritated glance.  
  
“That’s not offensive.” He raised his brows and pinned her with a look. She blushed a bit.  
  
“Sorry. Teasing. But still…”  
  
“Yes, I’m aware.” Or course he was aware. He also was aware of the appraising looks Malfoy had been giving him when he thought no one was looking, and they made Harry’s pulse jump. He was no longer the innocent he’d once been, and he’d spent a number of pleasurable nights as a result of very similar assessments on other faces. However, just looks didn’t mean anything. Still… “Hermione, I have a question for you.”  
  
She blew on her tea. “Shoot.”  
  
“Have you ever heard of -- ” How did he word this?  
  
“Heard of …” she prompted.  
  
“I’m trying to figure out how to describe it.” He frowned, and Rose reached up and poked her index finger into the crease in his cheek. He reared back slightly and looked at her, bemused.  
  
“You look mad,” she said. “Like this.” She made an exaggerated face and Harry smiled.  
  
“Sorry. I’ll endeavor not to do that anymore.”  
  
Rose nodded solemnly, and Hermione grinned.  
  
“Anyway,” Harry went on. “Have you ever heard of a wizard’s magic – reacting to another person’s magic?”  
  
She looked intrigued. “What kind of reaction?”  
  
“Like, an electric shock.”  
  
Her brows shot up. “Really.”  
  
“Yeah. Hair on the arms standing on end, hair on the nape standing up. Shiver down the spine.” He wasn’t going to discuss the fact that the shiver also detoured straight to his groin.  
  
She looked fascinated. “Can I hazard a guess as to who you’re having this reaction to?”  
  
Harry wanted very much to avoid her gaze, but knew it wouldn’t work. He sighed in resignation. “You already know.”  
  
“Malfoy.”  
  
Harry nodded. “It’s the second time it’s happened. With him.”  
  
When he’d told them the story about why he left the decade before, he’d told them he had a frightening, physical reaction to someone, another man, that convinced him he was gay. He had not, however, told them  _who_. But Hermione wasn’t referred to the as the smartest witch of her age for nothing.  
  
Her eyes went almost comically wide. “It was him, wasn’t it? The one – before.”  
  
Harry hesitated for a heartbeat. “Yeah. It was.”  
  
“Oh, Harry,” she sighed.  
  
“Oh, Harry, what?” he asked, irritated. When Rose poked his cheek again, he caught her hand and nibbled her fingers teasingly. She giggled.  
  
Hermione shook her head. “It’s only that the two of you have been dancing around one another for sixteen years.”  
  
“Ten of those years I wasn’t anywhere near him.”  
  
She gave him a stern look. “You know what I mean.”  
  
Harry looked down at Rose. “Why don’t you poke Mummy when she frowns?”  
  
“’Cuz she gets cross with me.”  
  
“Oh. Me too, apparently.” Rose nodded in commiseration.  
  
“Harry,” Hermione said, a warning in her voice. “I repeat; you know what I mean.”  
  
“Yes, Hermione. I know what you mean.” She took another sip of her tea, looking both thoughtful, and reluctant. “What?” he prodded. “What are you thinking?”  
  
She took her time setting her tea aside, then linked her fingers in her lap before meeting his eyes. “Have you ever heard,” she said carefully, “of magical compatibility?”  
  
“Well, of course. Isn’t that the whole ‘the wand picks the wizard’?”  
  
She shook her head. “Not exactly. It’s actually a concept they never covered at Hogwarts.”  
  
“Okay,” he said slowly. “Why is that?”  
  
“Because actually, it refers to personal compatibility. Or, sexual compatibility, if you will. And I’m betting the professors at Hogwarts would just as soon we didn’t think about it. They had enough trouble with students in dark alcoves.”  
  
“Hermione!” Harry looked pointedly at Rose. Hermione made a dismissive gesture with her hand.  
  
“She doesn’t understand, and she doesn’t care. Do you, Rose?”  
  
“Nope.” Rose settled more comfortably against Harry.  
  
He gave his old friend a pointed look. “That’s going to come back to bite you at some point.”  
  
Hermione sniffed. “No, it won’t. I have no intention of being secretive about something perfectly normal with my child. And quit trying to change the subject. You did ask.”  
  
Harry frowned. “So, explain to me how my having a – sort of tingling sensation on my arm translates to, well…”  
  
“Sexual attraction?” Hermione smirked. “You have heard of chemistry between people, right?”  
  
“Yeah.” He shrugged. “So?”  
  
“Well, with wizards, it’s more fundamental. Because we have a magical core, our magic will recognize the person we’re compatible with, even if we don’t initially.”  
  
“This happened with you and Ron?”  
  
“In a manner of speaking. When we were kids, we irritated the blazes out of one another.”  
  
“Okay, now I’m just confused.”  
  
“Well, much like you and Malfoy, we didn’t know what to do with our mutual attraction, and so we fought. The other person commanded our attention, and there were strong emotions involved, but at eleven your emotional range is a lot more limited.”  
  
“Like, oh, that of a teaspoon?” Harry teased.  
  
Hermione grinned. “For some people, yes.”  
  
“Okay, this… magical compatibility. That means my magic is… what? Trying to tell me something?”  
  
She cocked her head to one side, giving him an enigmatic smile. “Where Malfoy is concerned, I think your magic has always been trying to tell you something.”  
  
Harry put his head back, exhaling heavily. “I’m not at all sure what to make of this. I’ve been with, well, more than just a couple of people, Hermione. I’ve never felt anything like this.”  
  
Hermione shrugged and reclaimed her tea. “You plan to go back to help at Freddie’s, right?”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“He’s the Resident Healer, and there are sick children there. You’re going to see him.” She took a sip of tea. “Why don’t you just see what happens?”  
  
He’d really rather do something a bit more proactive, just to see if her theory was correct.  
  
 _Like what?_  his mind provided unhelpfully.  _Back him into a wall and kiss him?_  
  
Yes, exactly like that, Harry thought. If he didn’t think he’d be hexed into next week, he might be tempted.  
  


~***~

  
  
A house elf in a brilliant white tea towel led Draco through the entry at Parkinson house, into the formal sitting room beyond. The room had been redecorated since he’d last seen it. Where once it had been all dark, heavy furnishings and jewel tones, now it was white. White furniture, white ornaments on the towering Christmas tree, white walls, white frame on a mirror that was at least two hundred years old. The only accent color was tan, provided by pillows and throws, and silver wrapping on the presents beneath the tree. There were arrangements of twigs on the distressed mantle, and a tan area rug on the floor, but the inside of the room was nearly as white as the landscape outside. In the summer he thought it would be lovely, but now, when there was actual snow outside, not some that had been magically conjured, it was cold.  
  
“Can Binky be bringing anything for Mister Malfoy?”  
  
Draco turned to the small elf. “Yes, you can be bringing me your Mistress. I don’t have time to wait for her to make a grand entrance.”  
  
The small elf began to wring her hands, a nervous look on her little pinched face. “I is being sorry, Mister Malfoy.”  
  
“Oh, leave the poor thing alone, you heartless creature.”  
  
Pansy sailed into the room looking stunning, her dark hair pulled back into a French twist, diamonds sparkling in her ears. She was also wearing white iridescent robes, and Draco rolled his eyes. She went to him and rose up onto her toes, kissing his cheek.  
  
“Merlin’s sagging ass cheeks, you ridiculous bint. White robes? You’re dressing to match the décor, now?”  
  
“And you’re going to stand there and tell me your mother doesn’t?”  
  
Draco grimaced. “Point. So why am I here, Pansy?”  
  
She turned and went further into the room, gesturing toward the sofa. “Won’t you sit?”  
  
“Your owl said it was urgent you speak with me.”  
  
She settled gracefully onto the edge of an elegant chair. “You don’t think it’s urgent that I haven’t seen my best friend in two months?”  
  
Draco held onto his temper with the tips of his fingers. “Pansy, I’m working forty eight hour shifts, and I’ve several sick children whose care I’m over seeing at the orphanage. I haven’t  _time_  to merely sit and chat.”  
  
She pouted. “You never have time for me anymore. I appreciate that you’re trying to save the world, one sick urchin at a time. But damn it, I miss you!”  
  
Draco stared at her for a moment, then sighed. “Ten minutes. I’ll give you ten minutes.” She opened her mouth to argue, and he held up his hand. “And then, I will take you to lunch on Wednesday. We’ll go to Bertrand’s, all right?”  
  
Mollified by the mention of her favorite French restaurant, Pansy settled back into the chair with a wide smile. Draco crossed to the sofa and settled amidst the cushions. He looked around the room.  
  
“So, do you suppose your Grandmother Parkinson is spinning in her grave over what you’ve done to her formal sitting room?”  
  
Pansy laughed. “As if I care. The horrid old bitch hated me. The only reason I ended up with this house is because Daddy doesn’t want it. And if I had to look at one more brocade or tapestry, I was going to lose my mind. What do you think?”  
  
“I think it’s very… white.”  
  
She laughed. “It’s a perfect backdrop for you. You look stunning surrounded by white.”  
  
Draco snorted. “I look exhausted, and there’s absolutely no reason for you to attempt to flatter me.”  
  
She shook her head. “You don’t look exhausted. You look – invigorated. Responsibility becomes you.”  
  
He rolled his eyes. “I feel like that’s my cue to ask what you want.”  
  
She affected an insulted expression. “I can’t merely compliment my best friend?”  
  
Draco smirked. “You? No. Why am I here, Pans?”  
  
“Oh, you are hateful,” she said, but she didn’t look remotely insulted. “Fine, you hideous boor. Aren’t you even remotely curious about my card?”  
  
“Do you mean the nearly nude angel, or the ectoplasm?”  
  
“I mean the little hint I dropped about some absolutely delicious gossip I heard.” She looked like the proverbial cat that at the canary. It delighted Draco that he was about to burst her bubble.  
  
“Oh, you mean the gossip about Potter being back in England?”  
  
Her mouth dropped open in outrage. “Oh, you horrible arse! How do you know that? I was assured no one knew!”  
  
His slight smile was victorious.


	17. A Squeaky Sugar High

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt for this part:

Harry arrived at Freddie’s house, carrying a shopping bag in one hand with a box under his other arm. He’d Floo called from Ron and Hermione’s and spoken to Amelia long enough to find out Olivia slept peacefully from just before he left that early morning until well after noon. She was fussy and they were still fighting her occasionally spiking temperature, but she seemed to be breathing easily which was the primary concern of the advancing stages of the infection. Had she still been miserable, he’d have gone back the moment he’d awakened and had a shower, but now he felt comfortable enough with her condition to make a stop at Diagon Alley on his way to the orphanage. Hermione helped him apply a mild glamour, simply to make shopping less of a hassle, and he’d set out from their house after kissing Rosie’s pink cheek, and then her Mum’s.  
  
The quick stop at Gringott’s was entertaining. He had to present his wand as identification, and the wide eyed, strangled look on the ugly little goblin’s face made him smirk. Their confidentiality agreement prevented him from divulging his customer’s identity, which prevented him from telling anyone he had Harry Potter at his window. Harry was amazed, but so far even the  _Prophet_  didn’t know he was back in England. He’d never have imagined all of the staff at Freddie’s House, and all of the kids, could keep his reappearance under their hats. It made warmth blossom in his chest. He knew it would get out eventually, but it was great being able to keep a low profile for the time being.  
  
And Malfoy hadn’t told anyone. That was – unexpected. In fact, there was a great deal about this new Draco Malfoy that was unexpected, not the least of which was simply how great he looked. And smelled. He smelled like vanilla and cinnamon and something clean and woodsy, and every time Harry caught a whiff of it, his toes curled. He loved a man who smelled good. He’d realized early after realizing he was gay that it was something that turned him on, and Malfoy’s fragrance, well, it did it for him. But then he was rapidly coming to the conclusion that Malfoy sort of did it for him, full stop.  
  
Tired of wearing Ron’s transfigured clothes, he made a quick stop at Harrod’s and hurriedly picked up a pair of black jeans, a dark green jumper, a knobby grey scarf, black gloves and a short black leather jacket. His boots were fine; in fact, he was finding wherever he went someone commented on them. He wore them because they were comfortable. He’d left the pair he wore in the barn in Montana; he wasn’t going to try to toss boots covered in horse droppings in his rucksack. But this pair had been expensive, and he rather thought he’d outgrown trainers.  
  
He stopped in a candy store in Diagon Alley, then a toy store, then made his way down the snowy street to the orphanage, having accomplished the whole of it in less than half an hour. When he rang the bell, it was George himself who opened the door.  
  
“Can I help you?” he asked politely.  
  
“It’s me, George. Harry.”  
  
George opened the door further with a wide smile. “Nice glamour, Mate. I’d have never known.”  
  
“Hermione’s work.” Harry crossed over the threshold, ending the glamour.  
  
“Of course it was.” He eyed the pink box under Harry’s arm with the ‘Serafina’s Sweets’ in gold letters on the top. “Brought me candy, did you?”  
  
“Brought some for the kids.” Harry answered.  
  
“You brought sugary treats to a house full of children?” George smirked. “And here I thought you liked my staff.” He closed the door behind Harry.  
  
“Oh, I do. But I just think kids need sugar mice for Christmas.”  
  
George laughed aloud. “We’ll just wait to give them these until a day I don’t plan to be here, shall we?” He took the box from Harry and opened a cupboard inside the front door, installing it on a shelf.  
  
“Then I suppose we’ll add the charm that makes them scarper and squeak at that point. Let’s say – Christmas eve?” Harry grinned.  
  
“You are an evil, evil man.” George clapped him on the shoulder. “I knew there was a reason I liked you. And yes, I think that would be an excellent time. I’ll be at the store all day.” He paused and looked Harry up and down. “Finally got some of your own clothes there, Harry? Pretty sure my baby brother doesn’t own anything that swank.”  
  
Harry felt himself color. “Just thought I should quit imposing on his hospitality.”  
  
George nodded sagely. “Well, I’m glad the older girls are out of the house. The last thing I need is them following you around and sighing. They do entirely enough of that over the older boys as it is.” He shook his head. “It’s damned irritating. I wasn’t designed to deal a mild epidemic, let alone teenaged hormones.”  
  
“Any new cases?” Harry asked, searching his face for signs of strain. He didn’t see any.  
  
“No, thank goodness.” He gave him a relieved smile. “Just our sweet Olivia, and even she seems to be improving already. Draco is pleased with her progress.”  
  
Harry perked up at the name, but tried to maintain his relaxed posture and expression. “Is the good Healer here?”  
  
“Yep.” Despite what Harry thought was well hidden relief, George’s gaze sharpened. Harry decided the time had come to head up to the nursery in order to head off answering any uncomfortable questions.  
  
“I’ll just -- ” he gestured toward the stairs, and George nodded.  
  
“Harry.” He made it as far as the landing before George called out to him, and he paused. “I understand our Olivia has taken to calling you ‘Daddy’.” He looked about as solemn as Harry had ever seen him.  
  
Harry nodded. “If you’d rather she didn’t, I can try to get her to call me Harry…”  
  
George shook his head. “That’s not why I mentioned it. These kids are all available for adoption to a loving home, you know, Harry.”  
  
Harry blinked. “To a single gay man who owns a house that’s falling down and doesn’t have a job?”  
  
“To a single gay man, or a married straight man, or a green man with purple stripes. As for the house, well, that can be fixed can’t it? And your percentage of the profits from Weasley’s Wizards Wheezes would more than cover the financial qualifications. Frankly, as long as the man in questions loves the child, I don’t much care about the rest. I was raised by parents who didn’t have much money.”  
  
Harry inhaled deeply. “I just… I don’t know, George. I don’t know anything about kids.”  
  
“You do remarkably well with them then, considering.” He grinned. “Just a thought.”  
  
Harry nodded and started up the stairs again, a frown between his eyes. He’d always wanted kids, but he’d never considered adoption. That seemed something someone in a happy, established relationship did. Something he wasn’t.  
  
Arriving at the open door to the nursery, he saw Draco standing at the converted changing table performing some complicated wand motions over an Olivia who clearly didn’t want to be sitting still. She fidgeted in spite of Sheila’s attempt to hold her steady.  
  
“Sweetie, please. Let the Healer do his job.”  
  
Olivia arched her back and whined, but as she did so, she saw Harry lingering near the door and a look of such patented relief and delight passed over her features that Draco paused and looked over his shoulder. His smirk was less mocking than amused.  
  
“All hail the conquering hero,” he drawled.  
  
“Daddy!” Olivia cried, reaching out with her arms, leaning forward at a dangerous angle. Harry crossed to her quickly, placing one hand on her little belly to hold her in place.  
  
“Harry, sweetie,” he said, realizing he probably shouldn’t allow her to continue to refer to him that way. “My name is Harry. And you need to be still so you don’t tumble off the table and knock your noggin.”  
  
“Daddy!” she repeated emphatically, squirming. Draco sighed.  
  
“She’s feeling just well enough to squirm and just bad enough to be a pill.”  
  
“Here, maybe this will help.” Harry placed the bag from the toy store at his feet and withdrew a teddy bear with extremely soft, mocha colored fur, big brown eyes and a shiny black nose. It was wearing a red velvet jacket, a red and gold stocking cap and a sweet, friendly smile. When Olivia saw it, she made a sound of awed delight and held out her arms. “Like him?” Harry asked. She nodded quickly. “If I give it to you, will you sit still and let the Healer finish his tests?” She nodded again, solemnly this time, and Harry handed it to her. She clutched it to her chest with a deep, heartfelt sigh, burying her face in its fur.  
  
“Bribery,” Draco quipped. “I’m impressed, Potter. How very Slytherin of you.” He waved his wand and watched as a series of numbers appeared over Olivia’s head. He seemed satisfied with what he saw and banished the numbers with another negligent flick of his wand. He sent Harry an ironic smile. “But was it entirely necessary for this to be -- quite so Gryffindor a bear?”  
  
Harry answered his smile with one of his own. “Why, I hadn’t even noticed.”  
  
Draco snorted. “And I do the Highland Reel in tartan boxer shorts.”  
  
Harry turned and caught his eyes, his smile mellowing. “That I’d like to see.”  
  
Draco stilled, his gaze still engaged. “I’m quite brilliant at it, I assure you.”  
  
“I’ve absolutely no doubt.” Their eyes held, and something knowing and assessing passed between them. Draco’s brow arched, and Harry’s mirrored the gesture.  
  
A cleared throat from nearby had them both straightening. Harry felt his face heat, and he bit his lip as he looked away.  
  
“So, is she improved, Healer?” Sheila asked.  
  
“She is,” Draco said gruffly. “No upper respiratory distress, and her fever is down some. She seems to be improving much more quickly than the others did, which is very good news.” He bent and smiled into the little girl’s face. “Isn’t it?”  
  
She studied him, her eyes wide, squeezing her bear.  
  
“Here, Olivia. Shall we have some juice?” Sheila reached for her, but Olivia shied away from her.  
  
“Daddy,” she said, her lower lip sticking out.  
  
“Now, Olivia. I’m sure Mr. Potter doesn’t need to be cuddling you for another entire day.”  
  
“Actually, it’s all right,” Harry said. “As long as you don’t feel like I shouldn’t?”  
  
Sheila gave him a weary smile. “Mr. Potter, if you don’t mind watching her, there are other things I’m sure I can be helping with.”  
  
Harry glanced at Draco. He held up his hands. “Far be it for me to deny Princess Olivia anything.”  
  
Harry for her and the little girl scampered into his arms. She settled against his chest, her head on his shoulder and the bear still clutched to her side, and gave a heartfelt sigh.  
  
“Such a little drama queen,” Draco said mildly, but he smiled as he sleeved his wand. Harry held her and rubbed her back, rocking instinctively in place.  
  
Sheila collected what looked like an armful of laundry and bustled from the room, promising to return with a dinner tray.  
  
“Are you leaving?” Harry asked as Draco as he lined up several potions on a nearby dresser, then closed a dark bag, shrank it, and dropped it into the pocket of his Healer’s robes.  
  
“I have rounds at seven.”  
  
Harry glanced at the clock on the wall and saw that it was nearly six thirty. Disappointment flooded him. He bit his lip, then spoke impulsively.  
  
“I’m sorry you have to go.”  
  
Draco paused to look at him. “Astoundingly, so am I.”  
  
Harry fought down a pleased grin. He searched for something else to say that was appropriate while holding a two year old.  
  
“I wonder why she’s latched on to me,” he murmured, partly to prevent Draco bustling out the door and partly because he was actually curious.  
  
“I’ve wondered that myself,” Draco said, crossing his arms. He studied the toddler, whose thumb had found its way into her mouth and whose eyes had drifted closed. “I think, given her coloring, it’s feasible that you resemble her actual father. I suppose the first step might be to try to find out what happened to him.”  
  
“I thought about that, too,” Harry said. “I thought I might send Kingsley a message, see if there’s a file from when she was found.”  
  
Draco smirked slightly. “So, you’ll just jot off an owl to the Minister for Magic? Must be lovely to be you.” At one time, the words would have stung. But delivered as they were, with amusement dancing in Draco’s eyes, he wasn’t offended. He did, however, feel a bit awkward.  
  
Harry knew he was coloring by the heat that climbed into his cheeks, and the entertained quirk of Draco’s lips. “Relax, Potter,” he said, squeezing his upper arm. “It’s nice you have influence. Maybe we can discover something about her.”  
  
Harry’s breath caught at the tingling he felt, even through the thick leather sleeve. He stared at Draco, and saw him swallow, his Adam’s apple bobbing.  
  
“You feel that, too, don’t you?” he murmured.  
  
Draco removed his hand with every appearance of reluctance. “I find I feel any number of things when I’m around you now, Potter. The most astonishing part is that not one of them is unpleasant.”  
  
He colored, as if startled by what he’d said, and turned to go.  
  
“Draco.”  
  
He paused and looked back, grey eyes wide. Whether he was surprised by what had come out of his own mouth or by Harry’s use of his first name, Harry couldn’t tell.  
  
“Yes?” he whispered.  
  
“Much to  _my_  surprise, I like you, too.”  
  
Draco’s lips curled up at the corner. “Well, haven’t we grown up?”  
  
Harry chuckled softly. “Had to happen eventually.”  
  
Draco smile ripened. “So it would seem.” He gave Harry another shallow nod, then walked out through the door.  
  
Harry looked after him for a long time.


	18. A Message From the Minister

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt for this part:

It was well after three in the morning before Draco got a break and made his way to the hospital cafeteria. The food stations were closed, but there was really thick, black, basically horrible coffee to be had, and after the first eight hours of his shift, the idea of the caffeine held a certain appeal. So far, he’d been bled on, sneezed on, and vomited on. (Once again, he was grateful he kept four additional robes, shrunk and stored near the back, in his locker at all times.) Then just after five, a mother arrived with every single one of her six children exhibiting signs of Dragon Pox. The older kids were bad enough, but a two year old hiccoughing fire was dicey at best. Much to the child’s entertainment, he set the curtains around the ER exam cubicle ablaze. He and Smithers managed to put out the flames with quick and skillful wand work before they spread.  
  
Draco filled a mug with the thick, sludgy coffee, then made his way to a table and sat heavily in one of the uncomfortable wooden chairs. He was physically tired, but his mind was moving a mile a minute. All evening, he’d been replaying his conversation with Potter over and over in his mind.  
  
_“I find I feel any number of things when I’m around you now, Potter. The most astonishing part is that not one of them is unpleasant.”_  
  
And then,  
  
_“Draco.”_  He’d been so startled by Potter’s use of his first name that his feet had frozen in place.  
  
_“Yes?” he whispered._  
  
“Much to  _my_  surprise, I like you, too.”  
  
Draco took and released a deep breath and ran his fingers through his hair. He took a sip of the coffee and grimaced, but in his mind he continued to see Potter, with his no longer quite as disreputable hair, and his vivid green eyes, and his guileless smile. Not to mention his shoulders, and his narrow hips, and his arse, which had certainly been nicely on display in the black denims he’d had on today. Along with the leather jacket. Draco took and released a shuddering breath. He had such a weakness for a man in a leather jacket. And he didn’t know where Potter had gotten those boots, but… he shivered. Yeah, those embroidered boots with the pointed toe and the elevated heel. He ran one hand over his face. They were sexy as hell.  
  
“All right, Healer Malfoy?”  
  
Draco startled slightly and looked up to find Smithers standing over him, a concerned look on her usually unruffled face.  
  
“I’m fine,” he said quickly, and she arched one heavily tweezed brow at him.  
  
“Forgive me for saying so, but you’ve seemed preoccupied all shift. Care to talk about it?”  
  
Draco laughed a bit weakly. He couldn’t help it; the idea of confessing his crush on Potter to his ever efficient, stern co-worker was nothing short of comical.  
  
“No, I’m all right. I apologize if I’ve seemed inattentive, Smithers.” He lifted his head and met her eyes. “I’ve a lot on my mind, but I’ll try to concentrate better after break.”  
  
“I’m not being critical, Healer,” she said softly. “Nor am I your supervisor. I’m merely concerned.”  
  
Warmed, Draco sent her a small smile. “I’m fine. But thank you for asking.”  
  
His stomach chose that moment grumble loudly, and Smithers looked at it pointedly. “You’re fine, but you seem to have skipped your dinner. Correct?” Draco shrugged a bit sheepishly, and Smithers made a soft, disgruntled noise. She pulled her wand from her sleeve and waved it, and one of the small cakes locked behind the glass near the cash registers lifted and soared toward the table, landing gently in front of him. It turned until the letters on the top were turned so that he could read them.  
  
It was a little white cake, and on the top was written ‘Merry Christmas’. There were two small presents next to the red lettering, festive holly and ivy painted on the fondant, and a length of tartan plaid ribbon around the outside. Draco smiled, the plaid reminding him of McGonagall.  
  
“Thank you, Smithers,” he said. He looked up at her with an arched brow. “But, am I to eat it with my fingers?”  
  
She returned his look with an arched brow of her own. “I stole the cake for you; I believe you can manage to liberate the cutlery.”  
  
She gave him one last smirk, then turned and made her way from the deserted room. Draco drew his wand and summoned a fork.  
  


**~***~**

  
  
Harry had walked up and down with Olivia for the last hour while she sniffled and clung to him, her little head on his shoulder. She’d been quiet for the last few minutes and while her hand was still twisted in his jacket near the shoulder she no longer had a death grip on it, and he began to think from the way her weight had settled in his arms she’d finally fallen asleep. He hoped so. She looked tired.  
  
But then, so had Malfoy, he thought, pacing the width of the room again. Even though he’d been wearing fresh, crisp new robes and every hair had been in place, there were dark circles beneath his expressive, light colored eyes. Working long shifts at the hospital only to come to the orphanage couldn’t possibly be good for him, and Harry found himself worrying, which then amused him. The idea that he was worrying about Draco Malfoy, of all people, but pretty damned hilarious. Except the Harry he’d once been, and Malfoy at seventeen were both characters from another life time. And he was glad.  
  
Sheila entered the room, clean starched apron in place, dark hair neat at her nape. She smiled as she approached him, and he noticed the parchment encircled with purple ribbon in her hand.  
  
“This came for you,” she whispered. “Would you like me to take her for you, so you can read it?” Harry leaned back his head to try to see if Olivia was asleep, and Sheila smiled. “She’s out. Here.” She held out her arms, and Harry cautiously transferred the child to her. Olivia muttered in her sleep but didn’t wake, and Sheila handed him the scroll before taking the little girl over to her crib.  
  
Harry rolled his shoulders and slipped out of his jacket, hanging it over the back of the rocking chair before he sat and broke the wax on the scroll.  
  
At the top, there was a time stamp that read ’23:45’. Kingsley had been there late. Harry glanced down at his wrist watch and saw that it was now after four in the morning. “Did this just get here?” he asked.  
  
Sheila covered the toddler with a soft blanket. “I’ve no idea, Mr. Potter. The bird was pecking at the kitchen window when I went down for some tea.”  
  
Harry nodded, then read the neat, stark writing.  
  


> _“Potter,_  
>  Fancy my surprise in finding that you’re back in England. Welcome Home! We’ll have to get together for a pint soon.
> 
> In answer to your question about Olivia Doe; she was found trying to eat from a dumpster behind Fortescue’s on Diagon Alley, wearing nothing more than a diaper and a t-shirt with a tag that read ‘Olivia’ in the collar. She seemed to have been unattended for several days, was filthy and malnourished, and repeatedly asked for her ‘Daddy’, the only word she seemed to know. At the time, the alley was extensively searched but no trace of her father could be found, and none of the people we questioned seemed to have ever seen the child before. This was a year ago.
> 
> Since, the case seems to have fallen by the wayside and remains unsolved. I will speak with Head Auror Dawlish tomorrow to ascertain if we shouldn’t perhaps institute another round of inquiries. As it is, if the child’s status remains undetermined, she cannot be legally adopted. Which would not be in anyone’s best interests, particularly hers.
> 
> Thank you for bringing this to my attention.
> 
> Sincerely,
> 
> Kinglsey S. Shacklebolt  
>  M.F.M.

  
  
Harry frowned and re-read the message.  _As it is, if the child’s status remains undetermined, she cannot be legally adopted._  
  
Yeah, he didn’t like the sound of that at all.


	19. Weasley Jumpers For Everyone!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt for this part:

Harry ventured down to the kitchen at Freddie’s House when the scent of coffee and bacon drifted up to the nursery. Both his stomach and his need for caffeine combined to remind him that he’d been awake, and unfed, for hours. Olivia was finally sleeping peacefully after being awake for the better part of the night, and Amelia shooed him out the door when she came on at eight.  
  
“Go feed yourself,” she admonished. “You won’t be doing anyone any good if you’re hungry and tired.” Gratefully, he’d agreed.  
  
When he arrived at the kitchen he saw Molly sitting at the table with another of the matrons, one Harry hadn’t met yet, wrapping presents. A pile that had already been wrapped was against the far wall. It was a festive jumble; boxes of every shape and size covered in bright, festive paper with baubles or bows on top. While he watched from the doorway, a green jumper lifted and fitted itself into a box in front of Molly, and with a few swishes of her wand she had it wrapped and added to the pile. Harry took in the large stacks of jumpers in every shape and size on the table next to her and he felt momentarily swamped in nostalgia. He hadn’t had a Weasley jumper in ten years, and he’d missed them.  
  
She lifted her wand again when she noticed him lingering in the doorway.  
  
“ _There_  you are.” She stood and bustled to the stove, pausing only to look back at him and point emphatically to a place next to where she’d been. “Sit.”  
  
He grinned. “Yes, ma’am.” He straddled the bench and sat, reaching over to touch one of the jumpers. It was soft beneath his fingers, and his smile mellowed.  
  
Moments later Molly bustled back with a heaping plate in one hand and a steaming cup of coffee in the other. She sat them before him, handed him a fork, and reclaimed her seat next to him. He studied the eggs and sausage and bacon and toast and his stomach grumbled in pleasant anticipation. One sip of the coffee and mouthful of the excellent scrambled eggs, and he moaned in appreciation.  
  
“No one cooks like you, Molly. I’ve been damned near all over England, Scotland and America, and no one makes scrambled eggs like you do.”  
  
“Oh, pish tosh,” she said roughly, but a pleased flush filled her face. Impulsively, he leaned over and kissed her cheek, and the pink intensified. “Go on with you.” She waved him away, but a smile lingered around her lips.  
  
Harry ate in silence for a few minutes, watching as she wrapped several more jumpers.  
  
“Do you make a jumper for all of the kids?”  
  
She nodded. “And the staff.”  
  
“You must start in January.”  
  
She nodded imperturbably. “With the adults, yes. With the little ones I need to wait to see how much they grow. The yarn doesn’t take particularly well to stretching charms.”  
  
Harry reached out again and fingered one made of soft grey wool. “How do you decide which color they get?”  
  
“Well, it depends on the person, of course.” She sent him a look from beneath her lashes. “The one your touching there is for Draco.”  
  
Harry smiled softly. “Somehow, I knew that.”  
  
“Really? How?”  
  
“It’s the same color as his eyes.”  
  
The moment the words were out of his mouth, Harry regretted saying them. He could only chalk it up to his fatigue. But Molly merely smiled.  
  
“Yes, it is, isn’t it? He has lovely eyes.” She sighed, and Harry shot her a sideways look. If he didn’t miss his guess, Molly had a wee bit of a crush on the resident Healer. “Actually, he’s just a lovely boy. And a wonderful child Healer! It took him a while to figure out what he wanted, but our George was able to help him.”  
  
Harry’s brow lifted. “George helped Draco figure out what he wanted to do?”  
  
Molly nodded then paused, frowning slightly. “Well, actually I think it began with George giving Draco a job doing janitorial work.”  
  
Harry nearly choked on his eggs. “Draco  _Malfoy_  was a janitor?”  
  
Molly gave him a stern look. “Don’t say it like that, Harry. There’s nothing wrong with good, honest work, no matter how humble.”  
  
Harry nearly laughed; he’d just finished a stint shoveling horse shit. He knew all about humble work.  
  
“Actually, I think it was right about the time you… left. It was just after the trials, and the poor boy couldn’t get a job anywhere. The MLE was threatening to withdraw his parole if he didn’t find work, and the whole thing just made George so angry. I can still hear him; he said, ‘how are we all supposed to move on and start anew if they won’t let anyone forget their mistakes’.”  
  
Harry stared at her, impressed. “George said that about Malfoy?”  
  
She nodded. “Honestly, Harry, I think he got the idea from you.”  
  
“Me?” Harry was startled by that.  
  
“Well, of course, dear. After all, you’re the one who spoke for Draco at his trial, aren’t you?” Harry nodded, bemused. Molly’s eyes darkened as she focused on levitating another gift to the pile. “And honestly, in the beginning I think it appealed to George’s sense of justice that young Malfoy was going to be cleaning up after a bunch or war orphans in an orphanage named after his brother.”  
  
Harry covered her hand with his for a moment and squeezed her fingers. “I can see that.”  
  
She nodded, the frown between her brows smoothing. “The thing is, not only did Draco perform the job without complaining, he was always on time, worked hard, stayed late. And he was wonderful with the children. He knew so many helpful little spells, more even than I do. Spells for healing cuts and scrapes, and for removing splinters. And the wee ones, well – they loved him. It was Georgie who finally suggested he go into Healer training, and he got Arthur to write a letter of recommendation to the head of the program, telling him he was a damned fool if he didn’t take him.”  
  
“George did all of that?” Harry mused, sipping his coffee.  
  
“George is a good man, Harry,” she said with justifiable pride. “He’s done a lot for people affected by the war.”  
  
Harry thought of his own ten years of selfish wandering, and felt a spear of guilt. “Yes, he really has.”  
  
“Hello, hello!”  
  
George bustled into the room as if their words had summoned him, cheeks flushed with cold, carrying two huge sacks. He set them on the floor near his mother, then kissed her soundly on the cheek.  
  
“George!” she complained. “You’re lips are freezing!”  
  
“Ah, but my heart is warm, Mum.” He grinned at Harry. “How’s our littlest patient this morning?”  
  
“Sleeping. Finally. But she didn’t spike a fever all night.”  
  
George rubbed his hands together. “Excellent, excellent. Hear that, Healer?”  
  
Harry whipped his head around and saw Draco entering the room, carrying another two enormous sacks. He set them down near the two already by Molly, then ran his fingers through his hair, attempting to straighten the wind-blown strands. Harry wished he’d leave it alone; he liked the ‘just got out of bed, tousled’ look. Draco’s cheeks were pink from the cold, and he sent Harry a quick, tentative look from beneath his lashes.  
  
“Good morning,” he murmured.  
  
“Morning,” Harry replied, equally softly.  
  
“Found our resident Healer wandering Diagon Alley and decided to put him to work bringing stuff over from the store.”  
  
“I wasn’t  _wandering_ ,” Draco said. “I was going to head home through the Leaky and you shanghaied me.”  
  
George sniffed the air appreciatively, then went to the stove. “What, go home to that dingy, disgusting flat when there’s Mum’s breakfast right here?”  
  
“I’ll have you know my flat is not disgusting,” Draco said with an austere lift of one brow. He then smiled at Molly. “But I’d be a damned fool to turn down anything cooked by Molly.”  
  
She colored slightly and sent him a pleased grin, and Harry swallowed a smile.  
  
“Well, sit, sit, and I’ll make you a plate.” She went to the stove and smartly smacked George’s hand when he tried to snatch a rasher of bacon. “And you stay out of that. If you want to eat, you’ll do it off of a plate like a civilized person.”  
  
George sighed theatrically and removed his outer robes, hanging them on a peg on the wall. “See how she talks to me? My own mother.”  
  
“Who actually did teach you not to act like you were raised in a barn,” she muttered, and Draco grinned. Harry liked the expression on his handsome face very much. He didn’t think he’d ever seen much of it when they’d been younger.  
  
Draco and George both sat on the bench across the table, and Draco finally met Harry’s eyes. “Did I hear you say Olivia made it through the night without spiking a temperature?”  
  
Harry nodded, taking a sip of his coffee. “She was still a bit fussy, but no fever.”  
  
“That is good news.” He thanked Molly when she set a plate in front of him.  
  
George grabbed his mother’s hand and kissed it after she set a plate before him, and she tousled his windblown hair with an indulgent smile.  
  
“So, are all of these for the kids?” Harry asked, indicating the wrapped gifts and the four huge bags. George nodded.  
  
“We have sponsors,” he said around a mouthful of scrambled eggs.  
  
“George!” Molly scolded, settling next to Harry again. George chewed pointedly and swallowed.  
  
“Better?”  
  
“Anything would be better than looking at half chewed eggs.”  
  
He rolled his eyes. “Anyway, we have sponsors we call angels, and every Christmas they donate about fifty sickles a child.”  
  
Harry’s eyes widened. “Wow.”  
  
“It doesn’t go as far as it sounds,” George said, taking a manageable bite of his toast. “But this money is specifically for Christmas presents; art supplies, or toys. Whatever each child wants. We have them write a letter to Santa in October, so we have an idea what to buy. A lot of it comes from Wheezes. But I want the mites to have a true Christmas.” He turned to Draco. “Hey, do you have a shift tomorrow?”  
  
A line appeared between Draco’s eyes. “Why?”  
  
George grinned with delight. “Because if you don’t, we’ll make the pilgrimage tomorrow!” Draco moaned and rolled his eyes. “Now, none of that,” George said sternly. “You promised you’d go this year.”  
  
“I know I did, but George -- I’m only getting one day off a week right now…”  
  
George shook his head. “Don’t care. You’re either a man of your word, or you’re not.”  
  
Draco closed his eyes for a moment, then looked toward the ceiling as if praying for strength. “Fine.” He huffed. “So much for my own Christmas shopping.”  
  
Harry glanced between them. “Do you mind if I ask what’s going on?”  
  
George shot him a triumphant smile. “Ah ha, Harry! We should indoctrinate you this year, too!”  
  
“Indoctrinate me – to what?”  
  
“Every year we take the kids on a pilgrimage to the London Eye and the carousel! Oh, wait.” George frowned slightly as he looked at Draco. “Can we have them all together, yet?”  
  
Draco took a bite of bacon, nodding. Harry watched as he chewed, then watched the bobbing of the Adam’s apple in his slender, pale throat. The skin was so clear, the texture so fine…He blinked and pulled his eyes away when he realized he was staring.  
  
“It should be fine. In fact, as long as we don’t have another case, and at this point I don’t believe you will, they should even be able to come home in the next day or two.”  
  
“Oh, wonderful!” Molly said. “I think they miss the little ones, although they’d rather die than admit it,” she said aside to Harry. Harry grinned.  
  
“Not very cool to admit you miss toddlers,” he said knowingly. Molly nodded sagely and wrapped another gift.  
  
“So, if there’s no fear of infection,” George said, “and we aren’t going to be quarantined any longer, our resident Healer has no excuse not to go on an outing with his charges. In fact, you might consider it you duty, Healer Malfoy. You know, just to make sure no one is injured in any way.”  
  
Draco shook his fair head. “You’re shameless,” he said to George. He tried to sound cross, but a smile threatened. “Fine. I’ll come. But if anyone vomits on the Eye, you get to clean it up.”  
  
George beamed. “Deal.” He turned his gaze to Harry. “How about you, old man? Feel like chaperoning a bunch of children around the South Bank?”  
  
Harry hesitated for just a moment. “As long as Olivia continues to improve,” he glanced at Draco, “sure.”  
  
The smile that lit his one-time rivals face made Harry certain he’d said precisely the right thing.


	20. Matchmaker, Matchmaker

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt for this part:

When Harry arrived at Freddie’s House the next evening along with Ron, Hermione and Rose, he wasn’t sure exactly what to expect. It wasn’t twenty four surprisingly well behaved children between the ages of four and sixteen, accompanied by several familiar adults. They were gathering in the front entryway and sitting room, all of the children but the smallest, including Olivia who was still in the nursery by herself even though her fever had finally fled completely. The kids who had been with Molly and Arthur were there, along with the senior Weasleys themselves, and those who had been with Andromeda and Teddy. He saw Harry and gave him a bright smile and enthusiastic wave. Harry returned his greeting with a smile of his own; he’d never seen a person with candy cane striped hair before. It reminded him of the first time he’d seen Teddy’s mother, with her bubblegum pink hair and cheery greeting.  
  
“Harry!” George said expansively, coming over and patting him on the back. “We’ve been waiting for you.”  
  
“Mummy was late getting home from work,” Rose said brightly. “And Daddy looked like this.” She put her hands on her hips and made a cross face, her cheeks bulging and her eyes crossed. Harry thought it was rather a good impersonation of exactly what Ron had looked like as five o’clock, when they were supposed to be meeting, had come and gone.  
  
“He did, did he?” Hermione turned and pinned her uncomfortable husband with a look, and George laughed.  
  
“It’s all right. Give the man a break, Hermione. If I weren’t his boss and made him leave, he’d have been late, too.”  
  
Hermione huffed but lay off glaring at Ron.  
  
Harry looked around for a white blond head, but didn’t want to ask George where he was. He saw Ginny and Neville chatting with Sheila, and Andromeda sitting near the fire with Molly, Arthur and Amelia. Harry counted quickly.  
  
“Nine adults to watch 24 kids? Is that a good ratio?”  
  
“Twenty six, including Miss Rosie and young Teddy,” George answered absently. “And ten adults.” Harry’s heart lifted. Certainly he had to be talking about Draco. “I don’t like to take them anywhere with more than three per adult, even though they’re honestly very well behaved.” He gave Harry a wink. “Compared to how Fred and I were, at any rate.”  
  
Harry grinned. He figured that was nothing less than the unvarnished truth. “Where’s the tenth adult?” he asked it as casually as possible, and George sent him a knowing grin.  
  
“Checking the invalid, although I don’t think she’s going to qualify for much longer. She was demanding soup for dinner.”  
  
Harry’s smile widened. “Was she?” When he’d left at three to go and change, Olivia was down for her nap. But she’d been feeling well enough to sit on the floor playing with blocks while Harry helped Molly stuff stockings for the older children. They were all waiting for Draco to decide if it was safe for the older kids to return to the house in time for Christmas.  
  
“She was. Quite emphatically, too.” George looked around, counting heads, then turned back to Harry. “I’m glad she’s on the mend. I hate to see any of them feel poorly.”  
  
Harry was glad she was feeling better too, although he found himself missing her clinging to him a bit. Of course he wasn’t her ‘daddy’, but he’d liked feeling needed by the little girl. They were still waiting for information from Kingsley.  
  
“Ah, there he is!” George announced. “ _Now_  we can go.”  
  
Harry looked up the stairs, a slow curl of pleasure making its way through his stomach. Draco was coming down the stairs. He was wearing black slacks and a black jumper beneath a dark grey double breasted wool jacket. All of the dark shades made his hair gleam almost white, and he looked slender and lean and graceful. He lifted his head as he reached the bottom step, looked up and saw Harry, and smiled. Suddenly if felt as if there was a shortage of air in the room.  
  
“Hi,” he said to Harry.  
  
“Hi. How is she?”  
  
“Much better.” He turned to George. “I think it’s safe to say the others can return in time for Christmas.”  
  
“Ah, now  _there’s_  good news! We’ll tell them when we get back.” George set his clipboard aside and clapped his hands together, silencing the chatter around him. “All right, urchins and keepers, it’s time to head out. Adults in sets of two as follows; Mum and Dad, you take brattlings holding numbers one through four, Ginevra and Neville, you get numbers five through nine. Andromeda and Sheila, numbers ten through thirteen plus young Ted. Ron and Hermione, fourteen thru seventeen and Miss Rose. Amelia, you’ll be with me and we’ll take numbers eighteen through twenty one. Mister Potter and Healer Malfoy, that leaves bratlets twenty two through twenty four for you. Alrighty then, kids, older brothers and sisters find annoying younger kids in your charge, and let’s group up!”  
  
Harry was very impressed, watching the kids assemble with efficiency, older boys and girls finding and taking charge of younger kids, then finding their adult chaperones. Harry and Draco ended up with three boys between the ages of thirteen and sixteen who seemed grudgingly pleased that their chaperone was Harry Potter. Their names were Andrew, Michael and Trevor, and Harry grinned when he thought about Neville’s one time toad. He even shot a look at his old dorm mate, but Neville was holding Ginny’s hand and talking to two little girls who looked about eight. They were smiling and excited.  
  
Once coats were donned along with scarfs and hats, the large group headed out through the front door. There was chatter and excited laughter, and Harry felt caught up in the kid’s excitement. It was clear and cold with the snow on the ground, and he turned up the collar of his leather coat.  
  
“Have you been on the Eye yet?”  
  
Harry looked up to find Draco watching him, waiting for an answer. “No,” he answered. “I saw it when we flew in to Heathrow; it’s actually sort of hard to miss it.” Draco nodded. “But no, haven’t been on it yet. It’s something of a Ferris wheel, isn’t it?”  
  
“Sort of.” Draco pushed his gloved hands into the pockets of his overcoat. His face was almost immediately flushed pink from the cold; it was a good look on him. “The cars are actually large enough to hold a dozen or more people, depending on the crowds. There’s a bench in the center, but most people stand in order to be able to see the view.” He grimaced.  
  
“You don’t like it?”  
  
“It’s not that I don’t like the view. It’s just I’d rather not be inside anything that large that was made by Muggles.”  
  
Harry snorted. “Snob.”  
  
Draco shrugged. “Maybe. We’ll see what you think. It’s rather obnoxiously huge, and when you reach the top it is extremely high.”  
  
Harry laughed. “No matter how high it is, you have to have flown higher.”  
  
“On a broom  _I_  controlled. This is like being inside a metal box that is completely outside of my control.”  
  
Harry smirked. “Well, look at it this way; if something goes wrong, you can always Apparate out.”  
  
Draco sent him a teasing smile. “True. Tell you what; I’ll Apparate out - you take the kids. You’re the hero, after all.”  
  
Harry held up his hands. “I handed in my hero badge a long time ago.”  
  
Draco made a scoffing sound. “Don’t be ridiculous. Once a hero, always a hero.”  
  
Harry shook his head, grinning. “You’re a prat.”  
  
“And you’re a wanker,” Draco replied. “Care to go two out of three?”  
  
“Prig.”  
  
“Numpty.”  
  
Harry laughed. “Tosser.”  
  
“Already been used, see ‘wanker’.”  
  
“Fine. Twat.”  
  
“Teaching the boys some new and creative words, gents?”  
  
Harry and Draco both looked over to find George watching them. Harry glanced at their charges to see them grinning ear to ear. He returned the delighted smiles. “I doubt we’ve taught them a thing, George. More like they could teach us.” He was even more amused by how embarrassed and caught-out Draco appeared.  
  
As they turned onto the street approaching the London Eye, Harry looked up at it in appreciation. It looked like a gigantic bicycle tire with knobby tread, the nubs being the capsules that held the passengers. The bare trees leading to the Ferris wheel were strung with blue lights that cast blue reflections onto the snow, and the wheel itself was lit with spotlights and white lights. It was beautiful.  
  
When they arrived at the queue area, Harry was surprised there wasn’t more of a line. Yes, it was cold, but he still expected there to be a crowd. There wasn’t. George went to the front and provided the tickets, and the group from Freddie’s House filed in through the gate.  
  
“Harry, Draco, could you come here for a moment?” George called from the front of the line, and they exchanged a glance before pushing through the group to join him near the loading area. “We’re going to change things up a bit, just for the ride. Is that all right with you?”  
  
“Fine with me.” Harry shrugged. “I don’t care.”  
  
“I don’t, either,” Draco offered quietly. “Is there a problem?”  
  
“Just a couple I’d rather segregate from the others.”  
  
“Troublemakers?” Harry asked, studying the kids. They all looked pretty well behaved to him.  
  
“Just unpredictable,” George answered. “I figure you two can sort them out.”  
  
Harry shrugged. “Yeah, okay.”  
  
When they were next to load, George nudged him in the back. “You two go on. I’ll send the kids in behind you.”  
  
Harry and Draco walked onto the platform then into the slowly moving capsule. Harry walked immediately to the center and took in the open sides, the pale wood bench down the middle of the oblong shaped car, the dozens of windows and the solid ceiling and floor. He walked to the side and leaned forward to look up. Draco lingered near the door, waiting.  
  
“Excuse me?” Harry heard him say, then turned in time to see the door behind them slide closed with only the two of them inside. The capsule kept moving until it was away from the platform.  
  
Harry came to him. “What just happened?”  
  
Draco was still peering at the loading agent on the platform, who was holding the others back as a capsule slid by, leaving it empty. “She said ‘this car full’ and closed the door.”  
  
“After just the two of us?”  
  
Draco nodded, frowning. Harry caught hold of the handrail, more aware of the capsule’s movement as he watched the loading area fall away behind them. He was also very aware that they were suddenly, undeniably, alone.  
  
He grimaced. “I’m afraid we’ve just been managed.”  
  
Draco looked at him. “Pardon?”  
  
Harry leaned back against the railing. “I think our good friend George may have thrown a subtle suggestion charm at the woman loading the ride, and called us to the front of the line in order to separate us from the others.”  
  
Draco’s eyes widened. “He put us on here alone, on purpose.”  
  
Harry nodded. “I think --,” he felt his face heat, “ -- he may just be playing matchmaker.”  
  
Draco inhaled sharply. “Oh.”  
  
The capsule continued to move, and they continued to look into each other’s eyes. The ride was smooth, the platform stayed level even as the wheel slowly rotated, and yet for some reason Harry felt as if his feet weren’t steady on the floor. The longer he stared into Draco’s pale eyes, the less stable he felt. Finally, he pulled away and walked to the open side windows and gripped the handrail, trying to take in the view.  
  
There were ferries on the Thames, their lights bright, and the houses of Parliament and Big Ben threw brilliant reflections into the water, and yet he could hardly take in the spectacular view. He was so profoundly aware of the silent man behind him that he couldn’t concentrate at all. The further up the capsule moved, the less the lights from the ground reached them. Spot lights caught in the massive Ferris wheel’s super structure, but inside the capsule it was dimly lit and felt more and more like a private room in the air.  
  
“Potter.”  
  
Harry caught his breath and turned, and saw Draco had taken a seat on the low bench in the center of the car.  
  
“Yes?”  
  
“Are you – does what George did – are you embarrassed?”  
  
Harry paused, then shook his head. “No.”  
  
“It doesn’t bother you George is all but… well, he isn’t subtle.”  
  
Harry chuckled. “No, he really isn’t.”  
  
Draco searched his face. “I was afraid you might be insulted.”  
  
“Why?”  
  
Draco looked away, clearly uncomfortable. “Well, we don’t exactly have the best history.”  
  
“No. But then history is just that - history. I know I’m a different person now than I was then.”  
  
Draco eyes came back, and he angled his head. “How so?”  
  
“I’m not afraid to admit I’m gay, for one thing.”  
  
Draco blinked. “Oh,” he said faintly. Harry smirked.  
  
“Yes. Oh.” He walked forward and sat on the bench, not close but nor far away, either. “I was really afraid of it before. It was why I left.”  
  
Draco swallowed. “I wondered.”  
  
“You did?”  
  
He nodded, and his fair hair and light eyes caught the bluish lights reflecting from below. “There was something, when we shook hands after the trial. A -- ”  
  
“Spark?” Harry provided when Draco seemed at a loss for words. He nodded slowly.  
  
“Yes. Between our hands.”  
  
“It was more than that for me,” Harry admitted. “It was the first time I realized that I, well…” He let his voice trail away meaningfully.  
  
Draco’s eyes widened. “Really?”  
  
Harry nodded, his lips twisting. “Yes.”  
  
Draco’s smile curled his lips almost reluctantly. “I think I’m flattered.” Harry chuckled. “What do you suppose that was, anyway? That  _spark_?”  
  
“You don’t know?”  
  
Draco shook his head. “Should I? I’ve never felt that with anyone else.”  
  
“I haven’t either,” Harry murmured, relieved to hear Draco say the same.  
“Hermione has a theory.”  
  
Draco rolled his eyes. “Of course she does.”  
  
Harry laughed.  
  
“So, what is it then? Granger’s ‘theory’.”  
  
Harry bit his lower lip for a moment. “She calls it ‘magical compatibility’.”  
  
Draco stiffened. “That I’ve heard of.”  
  
“But you don’t believe it?”  
  
“I didn’t say that.” Draco searched Harry’s features, one at a time. “It’s just that usually – ”  
  
“Usually?”  
  
He pulled his grey eyes away. “Usually that happens with people who are – bonded, for lack of a better word.”  
  
“It doesn’t happen to people who are sexually attracted to one another?”  
  
Draco caught his breath, his eyes coming back to Harry’s. “Granger was rather thorough with her explanation, wasn’t she?” Harry smiled.  
  
“Hermione is nothing if not thorough.”  
  
The stared at each other, and time seemed to slow down and stop. The cold breeze lifted Harry’s fringe, the lights on the banks of the Thames shown below them, but inside the capsule floating in the air, everything seemed to stop, breaths held but hearts pounding.  
  
“I suppose,” Draco said finally, “there’s only one way to really be certain.”  
  
“Certain of?”  
  
“If the spark involved sexual chemistry.”  
  
“Ah.”  
  
Again, they stared. Finally, unable to merely sit there any longer, Harry leaned forward and hesitantly cupped Draco’s cheek in the palm of his hand. His face felt chilled, but the warm tingling against his palm, even through his glove, couldn’t be ignored.  
  
“I believe that answered at least part of the question. You do feel it, don’t you?”  
  
Draco nodded, his lips slightly parted. “Oh, yes.”  
  
“So, what do you suppose would happen if I did – this?”  
  
Harry leaned in until their lips were just a breath apart, and he was staring into the wide, pale eyes, the pupils of which were blown wide. Draco’s hand slid onto his thigh, and Harry caught his breath. Warmth and electricity radiated from the touch.  
  
“Potter,” he breathed. Harry felt the soft rush of air on his lips.  
  
“Yes?”  
  
“Are you going to kiss me, or not?”  
  
Slowly, Harry smiled.  
  
“Definitely.”


	21. An Inappropriate Venue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt for this part:

Draco could scarcely breathe. The air felt trapped in his chest, and Potter’s eyes were so green, so close. His hand had dropped away, which made Draco’s stomach drop, but he was still so close Draco could taste Potter’s breath on his lips. It was sweet and sharp with mint and something else that reminded him of sugar cookies. His heart was pounding in his throat so hard he was amazed the other man couldn’t hear it.  
  
“Sometime today?” he prodded, surprised his voice was so calm. Potter’s lips, full, close, curled upwards at the corners.  
  
“Oh, yes.”  
  
But still he didn’t, and Draco was all but weeping with frustration until he realized Potter was removing his heavy leather gloves. When he slid his palm along Draco’s jaw again, the surge of magic as skin touched skin made him gasp.  
  
“That’s --,”  
  
“Amazing,” Potter finished, hand moving around Draco’s nape, fingers spearing into his hair behind his ear. He was stroking his scalp, and Draco closed his eyes, leaning into the touch.  
  
“Gods,” Draco sighed. When Potter leaned closer, and his lips brushed Draco’s throat just above the collar of his jumper, Draco groaned. “Potter,” he whispered, voice raw. He smelled so good, like wind through pine trees or rain on grass, and his lean body exuded warmth. “Please --,”  
  
Potter’s lips tickled his ear. “Draco,” he whispered. “I’m about to have my tongue in your mouth. Don’t you think you could call me Harry?”  
  
Draco made a strangled sound. “That’s a bit presumptuous, don’t you think?”  
  
“Not at all. It’s a promise.”  
  
Fingers gripped his hair at the same time Potter’s lips moved from Draco’s throat to his mouth, open, brushing once, twice, the barest touch of moist, pillow soft flesh. Draco leaned forward, trying to catch him, but Potter teased mercilessly, withholding what Draco wanted, needed. “Potter!” he gasped.  
  
“Draco.” Potter’s other hand lifted and he cupped Draco’s face between his palms. He stared unblinking into Draco’s eyes. “My name is Harry.”  
  
Draco licked his lips, and the green eyes traced the movement of his tongue.  
  
“Fine,” Draco said, but the irritation he’d hoped to convey simply didn’t materialize. Instead, he sounded needy, desperate. But then, he was. “Harry,” he whispered. “Do you plan to kiss me before the sun comes up?”  
  
Harry smiled, a slow shifting of facial muscles that transformed his face into something startlingly glamorous. He tipped Draco’s head back and leaned in, no further hesitation as he covered his lips with his open mouth.  
  
It was not the first time Draco had been kissed by a man. The first time he’d been fifteen and it had been a much more experienced seventh year. Since, there had been several. He certainly wouldn’t describe himself as inexperienced. Yet even so, he’d never felt anything like Harry Potter’s kiss.  
  
There was no hesitation in him. He held Draco’s head between his palms and took control of Draco’s mouth, caressing his lips, slipping his tongue along the seam and urging them to part. When they did, he flicked his tongue against Draco’s, but he didn’t plunder or assault; he teased, and tempted, and asked a tentative question with the tip of his tongue. When Draco responded by curling his tongue around Harry’s, answering with a cautious caress, Harry made a sound deep in his throat and urged Draco’s lips further apart, one hand moving to stroke over his throat, the other slipping under his arm to open and press on his back, pulling him in closer. Draco responded by instinctively lifting his hand to press over Harry’s heart, and he felt hard, full muscles beneath his palm. His body responded instantly, heat and insistent need flooding his groin.  
  
Harry shifted on the bench, turning more fully toward Draco, and his thigh slipped between Draco’s, his knee unerringly pressing against Draco’s hardening cock. Draco made a sharp, needy sound.  
  
“Sorry,” Harry muttered against his lips. When he started to shift back, Draco dropped his hand to Harry’s thigh and dug his fingers into the muscle beneath denim.  
  
“I’m not,” he ground out. “Don’t you dare move.”  
  
He felt Harry’s smile against his lips. “Yes, sir.”  
  
Draco kissed the smile away, free hand coming up to clutch black hair as he pressed his hips forward, thrilling in the feeling of Harry’s knee against him.  
  
He’d never had a first kiss like this, he reflected with what was left of his mind. Usually there was something hesitant, exploratory, checking to see if there was something there, something that could lead to more. There was none of that here; immediately, he wanted more. He was so hard he ached and his body cried out for Harry’s mouth, his hands, the hard lines and angles of his body. Draco had a mad desire to lie down on the bench and pull Harry on top of him, just to feel all of that coiled strength and lean solidity pressing into him. When Harry’s arms encircled him and he pulled him forward, Draco found himself straddling Harry’s knee and he moaned at the heady feeling of Harry’s thigh pressing against his balls.  
  
“Christ.” Harry pulled back and rested his forehead against Draco’s, breathing harshly. “That’s -- I can’t even -- Draco.”  
  
Gratified he wasn’t the only one whose mind seemed to have turned to mush, Draco snorted. “Eloquence isn’t your strong point, I see.”  
  
Harry dropped his head to Draco’s shoulder and moaned. “How you can still be a snarky bastard at a time like this is beyond me.”  
  
Draco fought to catch his breath. “A time like what?”  
  
Harry huffed out a raw chuckle. “Oh, a time when you’re humping my thigh, for example.”  
  
“I’m not,” Draco said, sounding cross. The effect was somewhat lost when Harry flexed his thigh, massaging his balls, and Draco squeaked.  
  
Harry sighed heavily. “We can’t do this here.”  
  
Draco wanted to scream and cry out, ‘why the hell not?’ but he knew Harry was right. The ride would end at some point. And where were the kids in relation to them, anyway? Could someone actually see what they’d been doing? It wasn’t that he was sorry, but the illusion of privacy was just that; an illusion. The capsule could stop at any time. The last thing he needed was someone to see him rubbing one off on Harry’s thigh. Much as he wanted to, a little voice at the back of his mind insisted.  
  
Harry eased him onto the bench, taking the sting of rejection from the action by pressing a lingering kiss to his lips before sliding back a few inches. Draco licked puffy lips and made sure his clothes didn’t look rumpled.  
  
“You look fine.”  
  
He looked up into Harry’s eyes and felt himself color. He hated it when he blushed. But Harry was eyeing him, green eyes heated, and he was grateful for the darkness. Suddenly Harry stood and took a deep breath, running his hand through his hair which didn’t help the way it looked but didn’t particularly hurt it, either. He turned away, and Draco could tell by his movements that he was adjusting himself in his jeans. He hoped he was hard, too. Harry took a few steps  
  
“I have to put some space between us, or I’ll be right back over there, grinding you into that bench.” His hands clenched around the aluminum railing. Draco fought the urge to moan and pressed his palm over his erection. Gods, he ached. “That was – pretty fucking amazing,” Harry said finally, and turned back. “I want to do it again.”  
  
Draco nodded. “Me, too. I want to do that and a whole lot more.”  
  
“Just not where a bunch of kids and nearly every friend I have might be watching.”  
  
“Agreed.”  
  
Harry’s lips lifted. “You surprise me, Draco Malfoy. You have since I got back.”  
  
“You, too, Harry Potter. Definitely a surprise.”  
  
Potter grinned at him.  
  
The capsule swung smoothly into the loading station, and they stepped out onto the platform and walked to one side to wait for the rest of the party and their charges.  
  
“Have a nice ride, Mate?” George asked when he joined them a few minutes later, bestowing Harry a hearty slap on the back. His charges and the three boys who had been with Harry and Draco surrounded them.  
  
“The view is pretty spectacular,” Harry said, glancing to the side where Draco was standing. George, damn him, didn’t miss the movement.  
  
“Thought you might like it.” His lips twisted wryly.  
  
“By the way, George,” Draco asked quickly before the other capsule containing their party could disembark, “what happened back there?”  
  
“I’ve no idea what you mean,” the ginger haired man said blithely. “Other than the poor operator did seem a bit… confounded.”  
  
Harry glanced at Draco again, then shook his head. “You’re a menace.”  
  
George grinned. “I prefer to see myself as a romantic philanthropist,” he said with a lofty sniff, then turned to his family and parents and the rest of Freddie’s House residents.  
  
“Okay, troops,” he called out. “The carousel is this way!”  
  
Cheers went up, even from the older kids who tried to look ‘cool’, and Draco smiled. He and Harry followed George down the snowy walkway to where a beautiful, antique Carousel was playing Christmas Music on its calliope.  
  
As they walked, the back of his hand brushed Harry’s occasionally, and every time it did Draco felt a pleasant tingling up his arm. He smiled without glancing over, even though he knew he’d find Harry watching him covetously if he did.  
  
Harry’d been right; there were some things better left to a more appropriate time.  
  
Draco would make damn sure he found one.  
  
Soon.


	22. Falling

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt for this part:

“Like this, Uncle Harry?”  
  
Rose lay on her back in the fresh, powdery snow, waving her arms and legs back and forth. Her little jacket was covered in white powder, and the knitted hat on her head was so covered in snow that the little round puff on the top looked like a snowball.  
  
“Just like that.” Harry laughed. They’d been trying to produce the ‘perfect snow angel’ for about half an hour, once he realized the snow was too soft to make a snow man. Harry managed a respectable version of Bludger with his wand, but Rose wanted to do something ‘Muggly’, so snow angels had been the inspiration. “But this is the last one, Rosie. Your mum is already going to want to kill me.”  
  
“No, she won’t,” Rose called as snow piled up around her. “She loves you.”  
  
Harry snorted. “She doesn’t love me enough to be excited it you catch a cold right before Christmas. Okay, that one looks pretty good, love. Take my hand.”  
  
Rose reached up with her snow encrusted mitten, and Harry grabbed her hand and lifted her easily up onto his hip. Rose turned and looked down expectantly.  
  
“Uncle Harry!” She sounded breathless with awe. “It’s perfect!”  
  
Harry nodded, impressed. “It is. I think that may be the very best snow angel ever.”  
  
“It is,” she agreed, blue eyes wide. “I have to show Mummy.”  
  
“Okay, but let me clean you off first.” Harry set her on her booted feet and judiciously used his wand to vanish the snow from her clothes. His magic had come rushing back once he used his wand a few times, and he found himself wondering how he managed to live without it for so long. Now that it was back, it felt as if he’d been existing without a limb.  
  
Rose ran to the back door, shouting for Hermione, and Harry followed her at a more sedate pace. The snow that had fallen over night was beautiful in the early morning light, sparkling as if the top had been brushed with diamond dust. He inhaled and exhaled deeply, sleeving his wand and dropping his hands into his pockets.  
  
The night before had been wonderful. The kids were well behaved as they’d gone on the carousel and then been allowed to spend a few shillings in the Christmas Market that sprang up each year on the south bank. They’d finished the evening in the kitchen at Freddie’s House drinking hot cocoa and eating gingerbread, and Harry even managed to get Draco alone in the pantry long enough to kiss him again. When they emerged, Draco’s face was pink, Harry was pretty certain he looked smug, and George eyed them with amusement.  
  
That morning, Harry woke up with a smile on his face and a raging hard on tenting his boxers. He’d had a particularly delicious dream featuring pale limbs and white blond hair belonging to someone Harry had no trouble identifying. He also became very aware that, as much as he loved Ron, Hermione and Rosie, he needed a place of his own. The risk of wanking with an inquisitive four year old around wasn’t worth dealing with her potentially irate mother. He’d rolled over onto his stomach, groaning when his hard cock pressed into the mattress, and decided he’d start looking – soon. Then he remembered he owned a house.  
  
He sat up abruptly, reaching for his glasses. He didn’t even know if the sour old elf was still alive, but there was only one way to find out. “Kreacher!”  
  
Almost immediately, there was a soft ‘pop’ and the wizened house elf was standing before him, blood shot eyes wide and expression sour.  
  
“Master has returned,” he croaked, lip curled. “Kreacher wondered if Master had perhaps died.”  
  
“Sorry to disappoint.” Harry narrowed his eyes. “I was wondering the same thing about you, actually.”  
  
“Not dead yet.” Kreacher straightened slightly, and Harry could have sworn he heard the old bones creak. “What is it Master is requiring?”  
  
“Has anyone even been inside Grimmauld Place?”  
  
Kreacher looked even more affronted. “Kreacher would not let anyone in his Mistress’ home. Kreacher is a good house elf. Kreacher would guard it with…”  
  
“Yeah, yeah, I know,” Harry said. “You’d guard it with your life. That’s not what I’m asking; is it clean?”  
  
“Clean?”  
  
Harry sighed. He remembered what Kreacher had considered clean before; it would take him weeks to get it inhabitable. Then inspiration struck. “Kreacher, is Winky still at Hogwarts?”  
  
Kreacher eyed him suspiciously. “She is.”  
  
“You like her, don’t you?”  
  
Kreacher looked flustered even as his face turned faintly pink. Harry didn’t know house elves could blush.  
  
“She is… tolerable.”  
  
“Do you think she might do me a favor, since Hogwarts is closed for hols?”  
  
“Master saved Winky and sent her to Hogwarts. She would consider it an honor.” His mouth twisted, telling Harry quite clearly what he thought of that. “What favor is Master needing?”  
  
“I’d like to move back into the house,” Harry said carefully. “But I think it could use a… woman’s touch.”  
  
Kreacher chewed his lower lip, his brow furrowed. “Perhaps Master is right,” he said finally. “Kreacher will ask her to help him prepare the house. When does Master want to move back in?”  
  
“As soon as possible.”  
  
Kreacher nodded, great bat like ears flapping, and disapparated. Harry looked at the spot where he’d been, and then smiled slowly. Kreacher could never get the old place ready for him to live there, but Winky might. He’d decided to refrain from discussing the whole thing with Hermione.  
  
He followed Rose into the house after stamping the snow from his boots, and could hear her high pitched voice drifting to him from the kitchen.  
  
“It’s so wonderful, Mummy. It looks just like an angel!”  
  
“I’m sure it does,” Hermione answered. “Where is your Uncle Harry?”  
  
“I’m here.” He stopped in the kitchen doorway, inhaling deeply. Something smelled wonderfully of cinnamon and cloves and something else. “Whatever it is you’re baking, I want some.”  
  
She straightened and smiled at him. “Well, I figure I owe you for entertaining Rose while I got everything together. And this,” she picked up a scroll off of the counter, “came for you while you were outside playing.”  
  
He took it from her and immediately recognized the purple ribbon. He slid it free and unrolled the scroll.  
  
Kingsley’s handwriting was unmistakable, and Harry leaned against the counter to read.  
  


> _Harry,_
> 
> Rawlins has had his team do an exhaustive search through their archives, and I believe we may have an answer in regards to Olivia’s parents.
> 
> Two weeks before she was found behind Fortescue’s, a man was brought into St. Mungo’s suffering from curse damage. He’d been found in an alley behind Quality Quidditch Supplies, unconscious. Apparently, he’d been robbed and several nasty curses were used. He was transported to St. Mungo’s immediately but was too ill to be resuscitated, and died shortly after being admitted. A search of his magical signature revealed his name to be Sebastian Bernard McMillan. Ministry records indicated he was married to a witch name Miranda, who pre-deceased him, and had a daughter named Olivia Marie, thirteen months old at the time. For some reason, the Auror in charge of the investigation was so fixated on finding the perpetrators he did not follow up in regards to the child. This is in complete violation of departmental procedure, and had this been done, she would have been rescued much sooner. Steps have been taken to reprimand the Auror in question.
> 
> For the past two days, Dawlish has scoured the records for any evidence of surviving relatives. Unfortunately, it appears she does not have any. The good news, however, is that she can now officially be considered for formal adoption.
> 
> I have sent a copy of this to Mr. Weasley at Freddie’s House, along with copies of both the mother and father’s death certificates. I am sorry this was the outcome, and sincerely hope Olivia will have happier Christmas’s in the future.
> 
> Best Regards,
> 
> Kingsley Shakelbolt  
> M.F.M

  
  
Harry inhaled and exhaled slowly, something aching in his chest.  
  
“What is it?”  
  
He looked up at Hermione, then handed her the parchment. She read it with a line between her brows.  
  
“Oh, the poor little thing,” she murmured finally. “Two weeks? She was alone for two weeks? How does that even happen?”  
  
“What’s the matter, Mummy?”  
  
Rose looked back and forth between the two adults, clearly picking up on their mood. Harry watched Hermione force the frown from her face.  
  
“We just heard something sad, sweetheart.”  
  
“Is everyone okay?”  
  
The little girl had a line between her brows just like her mother’s, and Harry touched her head.  
  
“Everyone is fine, princess,” he said, removing her hat and ruffling her curls. “I’ve just had a note about Olivia.”  
  
“At Uncle George’s house?”  
  
“At Uncle Freddie’s House, Rose,” Hermione said. Rose’s frown deepened.  
  
“But Uncle George lives there.”  
  
Hermione opened her mouth, then closed it again. “You’re absolutely right. He does.” She pushed her hair back from her face. “Why don’t you go change, and then help me make gingersnaps?”  
  
Her blue eyes lit up, and she ran for her bedroom.  
  
“I’m going to head over,” Harry said. “I just… I want..” He closed his eyes and shook his head. “I’m not sure what I want.”  
  
She touched his shoulder, and he felt the weight of her hand through his jacket. “It’s okay. Go. I understand.”  
  
He opened his eyes and caught her hand, bringing it to her lips. “Thank you, love.”  
  
She nodded and waved him away.  
  


__~***~_ _

  
  
Draco walked up the steps to Freddie’s House, the cold wind lifting and ruffling his hair. It had been a relatively short shift; only twelve hours. He’d had to be at the hospital at six a.m., but he hadn’t had any problem getting out of bed. He’d wakened in his crappy flat in his lumpy bed with a smile on his face, and it was still there when he walked in St. Mungo’s doors.  
  
“Well, someone is certainly in a good mood,” Smithers said with a wry smile. “Get something lovely for Christmas?”  
  
He’d laughed aloud. “You could certainly say that.”  
  
He hadn’t elaborated, and she’d watched him with amusement for most of his shift.  
  
He entered the orphanage, a spring in his step. Instantly inside the door he could smell meat roasting and bread, and his mouth watered.  
  
“Healer.”  
  
He paused as he unwrapped his scarf from around his neck and looked up to see George come out of his office.  
  
“George.”  
  
“You’re here early this evening.”  
  
“My shift finished at six, and it was quiet today. Hopefully, it will stay that way until after the holiday.”  
  
George nodded. “I wonder if you might step into my office for a moment?”  
  
Draco frowned. “Is everything all right? No new cases, I hope.”  
  
“No, no new cases. Just a scroll from the Ministry I’d like for you to see.”  
  
Still mystified, Draco followed. Once in the cluttered office, George indicated the chair in front of his desk and reached across to pick up a parchment off of his blotter. He handed it to Draco, then leaned against the edge of the desk while he read it.  
  
Draco read the letter from the Minister, his spirits falling. When he was done, he looked up at George. “Does he know?”  
  
George nodded, crossing his arms over his chest. “He’s up there with her now. Has been for most of the day.” Draco nodded. “I thought you should know, as her doctor of record. There’s something else I think you should know, too.” Draco looked at him, waiting. George seemed to be picking his words carefully. “I know that there’s – something happening between you and Harry.” Draco felt his face heat, but didn’t respond. “And I don’t want you to get me wrong, here; I’m delighted. I happen to be fond of both of you, and even though you were a right git in the past, you’ve become rather decent in your old age.”  
  
Draco’s lips twisted. “Thanks. I think.”  
  
George’s grin was subdued. “It was a compliment. There’s just something you may not know about our Harry.”  
  
“What’s that?”  
  
George sighed. “He leads with his heart. And he’s impulsive.”  
  
Draco smirked. “That part I knew.”  
  
“It would be hard to miss,” George agreed. “I may have started something the other day…” He crossed his arms over his chest. “How much do you know about Harry’s childhood, Draco?”  
  
Draco frowned. “Before Hogwarts? Not much. Why?”  
  
George nodded sagely. “We need to talk.”  
  


__~***~_ _

  
  
Harry held Olivia, his lips against her cool forehead as he stood in place and rocked gently from foot to foot. She was feeling much better, but it was nearly her bedtime and she was drowsy. He’d stood aside as Sheila had changed her and dressed her in her pink onesie, but when she’d reached up for him, murmuring ‘Daddy’, Harry picked her up with a lump in his throat.  
  
He’d been half in love with her from the first moment she’d climbed into his lap, and it had only grown in the days she’d been ill and he’d helped to take care of her. But hearing she had no one, no one at all, had both broken his heart and started his mind racing.  
  
He’d only been home a few days, he didn’t have a house or a job – he had to be out of his mind to even be considering it. And then there was Draco, and this very new, fledgling thing that had just begun. He liked him so much, but had no idea where  _that_  was headed, either. He hoped – well, he hoped. So doing anything without proper consideration would be the height of foolishness. And yet…  
  
He heard a step on the floor behind him and turned. Draco was standing in the doorway, wearing his green Healers robes, his hair tousled and his cheeks pink as if he’d just come in from outside. He saw Harry, and his lips curled in a soft smile.  
  
“Hello.”  
  
“Hi.” Harry shifted Olivia in his arms, returning the tentative smile. “How was your shift?”  
  
“Not bad.” Draco came closer. “How’s the patient?”  
  
“She’s better, I think.”  
  
Draco bent his head and looked into her face. “Hello, Miss Olivia. How are we this evening?”  
  
She smiled around the thumb in her mouth, then turned and looked back into Harry’s face, adoration in her eyes. Draco knew exactly how she felt.  
  
“She likes you,” Harry said. Draco touched the little girl’s forehead and found her cool to the touch.  
  
“She likes you more.”  
  
“Only because I’ve spent all day with her every day for the last --,”  
  
“I’m glad she’s had you.” Draco dropped his hand from her forehead and touched the back of Harry’s hand. The soft tingle spread through his hand and up his arm, and he left his fingers in contact with the warm skin, not wanting to lose the connection.  
  
Harry felt it, too. Draco could tell. His lips had parted slightly and his eyes were wide and so green, and Draco stared into them and felt his heart turn over hard. It would be so easy to let himself fall. So, so easy.  
  
“She’s had both of us,” Harry murmured. The corner of his lips quirked up. “Draco.”  
  
Draco let the tip of his fingers slip just under the sleeve of Harry’s green jumper. “So she has – Harry.”  
  
The warmth that entered Harry’s expressive eyes went straight to Draco’s heart.


	23. Unexpected Adornment

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt for this part:

Sheila brought in a bottle for Olivia, handed it to Harry and departed with a fond smile. Harry settled in one of the wooden rockers and arranged her across his lap, then looked up at Draco, one side of his lips curled in a soft smile.  
  
“Aren’t you going to sit down?”  
  
Draco blinked. He’d been caught out simply staring, and he felt his face grow warm as he settled himself into the wooden chair opposite with as much dignity as he could manage. Harry turned his head to look down at Olivia as he placed the nipple of the bottle against her lips, and she latched on, her chubby hand coming up to lay against the back of Harry’s as he held the bottle. It looked so small and pale against his tawny skin and Draco stared, wishing he had a camera so that he could capture the image.  
  
“Have you talked to George?”  
  
Draco startled and lifted his head, looking into Harry’s inquisitive gaze.  
  
“Did he tell you about the note for Kingsley?”  
  
Relief flowed headily through Draco’s chest, calming the sudden pounding of his heart. Of course he was asking about the note; he had no way of knowing that George shared what he was quite certain Harry would see as private information. Private information that had an unsettling effect on Draco’s heart.  
  
How Harry had grown into the man he was with the childhood he’d been forced to endure was beyond Draco’s comprehension. It also explained why he’d disappeared after court the way he had, something that hurt Draco for years. But understanding how he was raised, and what the Muggles he’d lived with believed about him, had been both sobering and illuminating. Although how anyone could think Harry Potter was some sort of freak was hard to fathom. He’d been such a larger than life character in his life, even before Draco ever met him, that he couldn’t understand the cruelty that would lead someone to abuse him as a child. It explained the way he’d always dressed on arriving at Platform Nine and three quarters, how for the first part of term he looked skinny and pale. It was both humbling, and personally humiliating. He’d been raised with every possible advantage, anything he could want to eat, a wardrobe that vied his mother’s for extravagance. Harry’d had nothing; he’d been forced to live in a cupboard, for Gods sakes, and the entire wizarding world had heaped its expectations on him. Never had anything seemed quite as ludicrous. But then he’d gone and done it, hadn’t he? He’d killed the monster and saved – well, everyone. Including him. Draco was ready to believe the man could do almost anything.  
  
Grasping for the thread of the conversation, Draco finally remembered where they’d been.  
  
“Yes, George told me what the Minister had to say.” He looked down at Olivia, now clutching Harry’s index finger. “It seems brutally unfair, doesn’t it?”  
  
Harry nodded, stroking her cheek with his thumb. “No child should have to grow up with no one.”  
  
Something right next to Draco’s heart began to ache. “No, they shouldn’t.”  
  
They sat in silence after that, Harry staring down into Olivia’s slack little face, Draco staring at Harry. The soft creaking of the chairs was the only sound, and Draco realized that after a hectic day at the hospital, after a hectic  _two weeks_  at the hospital, he felt completely, utterly at peace. It had been a long time since he’d felt that way.  
  
When the bottle slipped from Olivia’s slack lips, leaving milky residue, Harry placed it on the small table near his elbow and wiped her mouth with a small cloth. He shifted her and stood, crossing to her crib. Draco stood and moved to his side as he laid her in the crib and pulled up a pink comforter, tucking it under her chin. Draco watched the quiet, steady movement of Harry’s hands, the way he touched her with aching tenderness. It made his throat feel thick, and he lifted his hand almost unconsciously, stroking it up the curve of Harry’s strong back, feeling the muscles shift beneath his palm.  
  
Harry straightened and turned to look at him, his hands still on the railing of the cot. Draco studied his face, his hand drifting up into his black hair and his fingers spearing through the dark strands. He watched the mobile features shift through a dozen expressions, the clear eyes relating so many unspoken words.  
  
“What?” Harry whispered finally.  
  
Draco shook his head. “Nothing. Just…” He stepped closer and leaned in, and covered Harry’s lips with his own.  
  
Harry made a soft sound of welcome, one hand lifting to grab the front of Draco’s robes as if anchoring himself. Draco angled his head and circled Harry’s nape with his fingers, and attempted to pour into the kiss everything he didn’t know how to say. How much he admired him, how badly he felt for misjudging him all of those years, how badly he hoped that their past could be overcome and that this, whatever it was, was as important to Harry as it was to him. How much he wanted him.  
  
Harry turned and took a step closer, encircling Draco’s waist with his arms, pulling him in until they were pressed together from chest to knees. Draco was slightly taller but not enough that it was insurmountable, and Harry responded eagerly when Draco slipped his tongue between his teeth, a needy sound humming through his throat. Harry made the most delicious noises. Draco thought between his skill with his tongue and his little sounds, he could send him over the edge with those alone. His cock twitched and filled, and he pressed forward with his hips. Harry made another rough noise, his hand dropping and spreading on Draco’s arse.  
  
Olivia snuffled and whimpered, and they sprang apart, looking down. She was fidgeting, but she was still asleep. Harry leaned over, spreading his hand on her tiny form and whispering to her, and within moments she settled, her breathing slow and even. Harry straightened and looked at Draco.  
  
“We probably shouldn’t do that here,” he said, but he looked and sounded so honestly regretful that Draco could only smile. He reached up and pushed some of his soft fringe away from his eyes, taking pleasure in the fact that Harry allowed it. “I wish there was somewhere else, but --,”  
  
Draco held up his hand, struck with sudden inspiration. He took a step backwards, the front of Harry’s jumper in his hand. Harry frowned but allowed himself to be pulled along.  
  
Once out in the hall, Harry finally spoke. “Draco, where -- ?”  
  
Draco smiled. “Trust me?”  
  
Harry hesitated a moment, and Draco nearly kicked himself. What a stupid thing to say, given their history. What if…  
  
“Yeah,” Harry said, unaware of Draco’s inner conflict. “Just curious.”  
  
Draco smiled even wider, relief making him almost giddy. “Curiosity killed the cat, you know, Potter,” he teased.  
  
Harry snorted. “Good thing I’m not a cat, then.”  
  
“Very good thing.”  
  
Draco took his hand and led him to the end of the hall, opening a heavy wooden door before pulling Harry into a dim room and closing the door behind him.  
  
George had insisted Draco, as Resident Healer, needed to have an ‘office’ inside of Freddie’s House. Draco argued that he was merely a trainee, but George would hear none of it. “You’re Freddie’s House Resident Healer,” he argued. “You will have your own office.” Draco had never used it, other than to store the kids’ files, but now he thought it might just come in handy.  
  
“What’s this?” Harry asked, looking at the empty bookshelves and the plain wooden desk. The room really did have a feeling of misuse about it, and Draco suddenly thought he should have at least put a lamp on the desk, and a few books in the shelves. Maybe it was time to think about that…  
  
“My office,” he answered a bit sheepishly. “George insisted, but I’ve never really had the time --,”  
  
He’d forgotten how quickly Harry could move, but between one word and the next, he was pressed up against the inside of the office door, his hands pinned on either side of his head. Harry’s eyes sparkled as Draco’s pulse skittered.  
  
“Does that mean we won’t be disturbed here?”  
  
Draco swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry. “We shouldn’t be.”  
  
Harry’s grin widened, became predatory. “Excellent.”  
  
Draco had heard the term ‘devoured’, but he’d never experienced it before. Not until that very moment. But when Harry took his mouth this time, there was no other term that applied. He devoured Draco’s mouth, his lips, his tongue. He kissed with such intense concentration, such abandon, that even if Draco had tried to maintain a thought in his head, it was futile. His mind went blank of everything but ‘yes’, and ‘more’, and he returned as good as he got, hands lifting into Harry’s hair, groin hot and heavy. When Harry pressed into him with his hips, he growled in frustration. There were too many layers between them, he couldn’t  _feel_  him.  
  
Harry drew back and went to work on the front of Draco’s robes, opening the buttons down the front. “Is this okay?” he asked, all the while unbuttoning and unhooking.  
  
“Gods, yes,” Draco answered, leaning his head back against the door. He looked up and bit his lip as he felt the back of Harry’s hand brush against his erection, and spread his feet apart. Then he noticed a sparkling of magic, just above them. As he watched with growing disbelief, and bunch of mistletoe, complete with deep green leaves, white berries and a sheer gold ribbon shimmered into being right above their heads.  
  
“Harry,” he said. Harry paused on his buttons, his eyes lifting. Draco gestured up with his chin and Harry looked, his mouth dropping open slightly.  
  
“How…?” he started, then his eyes dropped to Draco’s and they spoke together.  
  
“George.”  
  
Draco snorted out a laugh that caught him off guard, and he covered his mouth with his hand. Harry looked up again with a smirk.  
  
“Better cast a silencing spell,” he said dryly.  
  
“What?” Draco asked, still laughing. “Why?”  
  
“Because if I know my good friend George,” Harry’s eyes lowered back to Draco’s, “he’ll have spelled the mistletoe so that he’s alerted when it appears, and he’ll go looking for us.” He parted the front of Draco’s robes and stepped closer, pressing himself against him. Draco could feel all of the hard muscles through his white dress shirt and his grey trousers. He could also feel the hardness at Harry’s groin lining up with his, and he closed his eyes for a moment on an indrawn breath. “I’d just as soon he didn’t find us for at least a few minutes.”  
  
“Why is that?” Draco breathed, spreading his thighs further, accepting Harry’s legs between his.  
  
“Oh, I think that will become pretty obvious here in a second.” His lips searched out the side of Draco’s throat, opening on his skin, and Draco felt the damp heat of his tongue just as Harry rolled his hips forward into him, and he gasped, his toes curling. Harry’s lips drifted up to his ear. “I think it’s going to get a bit noisy in a moment.”  
  
Draco laughed raggedly. “Pretty sure of yourself, aren’t you? I’m not the noisy type.”  
  
Harry nibbled his ear lobe, sharp little sparks of pain that ramped Draco’s need even higher.  
  
“You might not be,” Harry said, a smirk in his voice. “But  _I_  am.”  
  
After that, Draco had no desire to talk at all. Harry’s palm dropped to his groin as he kissed Draco’s neck, and he sucked some of his skin into his mouth just as he palmed him through his trousers. Draco angled his hips into the touch, one hand fisting in Harry’s jumper, the other reaching around to grab his taut arse. Harry’s fingers searched out the shape of him, rubbing maddeningly up and down, and Draco couldn’t control the jittery jerks of his hips or the trembling in his thighs. It had been a long time since anyone had touched him, and he was suddenly very afraid he’d embarrass himself.  
  
“Harry,” he gasped, grabbing his wrist. Harry looked up at him.  
  
“No?”  
  
“No. I mean, yes,” he rushed when he saw doubt enter Harry’s eyes. “Very much yes, I’m just already so close…” Heat rushed up his neck, but Harry smiled.  
  
“It’s okay.”  
  
“It isn’t. Not when I haven’t even touched you, yet.”  
  
Harry took a half step back, his arms dropping to his sides. “So,” he met Draco’s gaze head on, “touch me.”  
  
Draco’s heart slammed hard into his breast bone, and he licked his lips and looked down at the bulge just to one side of Harry’s zip. He reached out with tentative fingers, stroking once over the distended heat, and Harry gasped, his head dropping back, his hands curling into fists. Encouraged, Draco covered him with his palm and pressed, feeling the hard length throb against his palm.  
  
“Nice,” he said, mapping the size of him. “Very nice.”  
  
“Glad you approve.” Harry sounded faintly suffocated, and he rolled his hips into the touch. Draco caught his rhythm, squeezing, and after a few rolling thrusts, Harry stopped. “Okay, I get your point about being close,” he said. “Perhaps what we need to understand is that it just isn’t going to take very long this first time, and get on with it.”  
  
Startling Draco, he tore open his own denims, pushing them down until his cock slapped free, reddened and thick, thrusting from a thick thatch of black curls. Draco looked at it, at the perfect shape of it, and his mouth watered. Harry reached for Draco’s trousers and freed him with surprising economy of motion.  
  
“Speaking of nice,” Harry whispered and touched the arch of Draco’s pale cock with the tips of his fingers. Draco moaned. Spitting into his palm, Harry stepped in against Draco and circled both of their hard pricks with his hand. Ordinarily, Draco would have found such a thing extremely coarse. Now he found it so erotic he felt his balls draw up and heat spread through his pelvis. Harry met Draco’s gaze. “Yeah?”  
  
“It’s -- yeah, fine, okay.” Draco could scarcely form coherent words. The feeling of Harry’s hand on him, slightly callused, and his cock, hard and thick against Draco’s, robbed any thought of lucidity. When he began to stroke them together, Draco groaned in a sound so wanton he couldn’t believe it had come from his own mouth.  
  
“Gods,” he moaned, beginning to move his hips into each stroke. Harry moved closer, his open mouth next to Draco’s ear, his pants and soft hitching sighs nearly as arousing as the feeling of his breath on his cheek. It all worked together; the hot stroking palm, the dirty slap of skin on skin moving faster and faster, Harry’s short, choppy moans.  
  
“Jesus, I’m not going to last,” Harry said roughly. “Are you… How close are you?”  
  
“Close,” Draco answered.  
  
Harry tightened his grip, added a twist at the top of each stroke, and Draco whined, hips thrusting, hands gripping Harry’s arse so hard he thought he’d leave bruises. When Harry’s mouth latched onto his throat, and his teeth bit, the small jolt of pain sent him right over the edge and Draco’s world exploded in a white, hot rush of heat that speared down his spine, through his balls and out of his cock in an orgasm so fierce his knees buckled.  
  
“Oh, Christ.” He heard Harry from somewhere far away, and then he was shaking and Draco felt warm wetness splash against his lower belly and he had no idea if it was his or Harry’s. He only knew that Harry’s hand was still milking them, and he was shaking and gasping, and instinctively, Draco encircled his hard body with his arms as Harry shuddered through his own orgasm.  
  
When it was over, he felt Harry sag heavily against him, his rough breath sawing against his throat. His own breathing was harsh and quick, his pulse was throbbing, and his knees felt weak. So weak he wasn’t up to supporting both of them, and they slid to a graceful tangle on the floor, legs entwined, Harry’s hand still curled around both of their softening cocks. They sat there for several minutes, foreheads pressed together, breathing into one another’s open mouth before Harry angled his head and kissed him, so slow and sweet that Draco felt a suspicious prickling behind his eye lids.  
  
Draco sighed when their lips parted, turning his head and resting it on Harry’s shoulder, pulling him closer. He heard Harry’s soft chuckle.  
  
“Draco Malfoy is a post coital cuddler,” he said, his voice rough. “Who would have guessed?” He shifted closer, pressing his lips to Draco’s crown, taking the teasing sting from the words. “I like it.”  
  
“Well, don’t get used to it,” Draco said without any real heat. “I’m merely grateful for the first orgasm not provided by my own hand in a ridiculously long time.”  
  
“Glad to be of service, sir. I hope I can help you out again soon.”  
  
Draco leaned back and looked into the shiny green eyes. “Oh, I think you can count on that. And perhaps next time, I’ll even have the presence of mind to help.”  
  
Harry grinned. “That would be nice.” He took out his wand and cast a silent cleansing spell, and Draco shivered as it moved over his skin.  
  
Almost as soon as the tingle of the spell had finished, there was a soft pop above their heads and a shower of gold and red and silver and green glitter rained down on them, sticking to their hair and their clothes. Draco looked up in surprise, and saw that the mistletoe was gone.  
  
“That sneaky bastard,” Harry growled, and Draco looked into his eyes. “He set the damned spell to  _finish_  when we did,” he explained pointedly. “I’d be willing to bet --,” He tried to brush some of the glitter from his arm, and cursed when it wouldn’t be budged. “Son of a bitch.”  
  
“Wait, you mean he configured a spell that would rain glitter on us if we…”  
  
“Yes, that’s exactly what I mean.”  
  
Draco caught his breath, then couldn’t help the smile that turned into a chuckle.  
  
“You find this amusing?” Harry asked, his own lips beginning to quirk.  
  
“Well, you have to admit it’s pretty ingenious charm work.”  
  
“George is nothing if not ingenious.” Harry rolled his eyes and pushed to his feet, offering Draco his hand. “We may as well face the music. George is going to be the only one who knows how to get this out of our hair.” He smirked. “In  _both_  locations.”  
  
Draco looked down at his groin and saw the glitter in his pubic hair. He looked more closely and exhaled in exasperation. “Oh, for fuck’s sakes…”  
  
“What?”  
  
“Look at your pubs, Potter. Notice anything amiss?”  
  
“Besides the fact that they don’t usually sparkle, you mean?” Harry chuckled as he peered closer. Draco knew he understood when he let loose with a string of colorful curse words that ended with ‘that bloody prat!’  
  
Draco couldn’t help but admire the intricacy of the spell. Because somehow the glitter had separated, and all of the small shiny specs in his own pubic hair were Gryffindor red and gold, and all of those shining in Harry’s were Slytherin silver and green.


	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt for this part:

George was unrepentant and entirely too amused by the ‘glitter issue’ for Harry to be very angry at him. And honestly, looking at Draco, extremely disgruntled with red and gold glitter in his hair and on the tip of his pointed nose, and knowing where else he was similarly adorned, made it extremely difficult to be annoyed. Draco finally even seemed grudgingly amused, but he was much better at hiding it than Harry was. He was the one who finally convinced George of the necessity of sorting them out before he had to start his next shift at six the following morning.  
  
“If I have to walk into St. Mungo’s covered in this horrendous display of Gryffindor idiocy, I will make you pay, George Weasley. And you know I can.” George acquiesced quickly enough that Harry could only wonder just exactly what Draco was threatening. The spell that vanished the glitter was warming and mild, which was a good thing considering where most of it was located.  
  
When Draco walked out into the cool evening a few minutes later, Harry went with him. He understood why Draco needed to go home; being a trainee and unmarried meant he was the one who pulled the early shift on Christmas Eve. The more senior staff members were at home with their families. Harry just wished he could spend a bit more time with him.  
  
Once they were out of sight of the front of Freddie’s House, Harry casually reached over and linked their fingers. Draco sent him a sidelong look, but didn’t pull away.  
  
“Do you live far from here?” Harry asked casually. He felt Draco stiffen.  
  
“I live out in the Muggle area near the main entrance to St. Mungo’s.”  
  
“You live in a Muggle building?” Harry couldn’t hide his astonishment. Draco smirked wryly.  
  
“Hard to believe, isn’t it? My father – well, let’s just not go there, shall we?”  
  
“Works for me.”  
  
Draco huffed out a laugh. “I imagine it does. At any rate, the location is convenient but the place is so hideous that I allow no one to see it. Ever.”  
  
Harry hummed. “I own a house, and I have a couple of house elves working on it, but… well, hideous is a pretty good word.”  
  
They arrived at the entrance to Diagon Alley, and paused. It was mostly deserted at this hour, the shops and carts closed for the night. But in less than twelve hours it would be teeming with life, catering to the Christmas Eve shoppers. Draco turned to face Harry, still holding his hand.  
  
“All these questions about where I live. Any specific purpose?”  
  
Harry grinned. “Well, I’d like to see you alone. Aren’t you a bit curious how we might get on without oh… several dozen witnesses?”  
  
“Why, Mr. Potter, are you suggesting an overnight visit?” Draco’s eyes sparkled. “Don’t you think it’s a bit early in the game for that?”  
  
“No, Mr. Malfoy, I don’t. Not when we’ve known each other for well over a decade. Unless…” He hesitated, wondering if he was being too presumptuous. Draco’s teasing smile put that worry to rest.  
  
“Honestly, we might be better off just checking into a hotel.”  
  
“Maybe. Why don’t you let me see what kind of progress the elves make on my place.”  
  
“Wait, isn’t your good friend Ms. Weasley opposed to the use of house elves?” His grey eyes were alight with suppressed laughter.  
  
“She is, which is why we aren’t going to tell her,” Harry said firmly. “I love her, but I really don’t want to spend the next six months living with them while I hire a magical contractor to do what the elves can manage in a few days.” He stepped closer to Draco, so close they were separated by mere inches. “I’d like a place of my own, where we aren’t likely to be interrupted. Or showered with glitter.”  
  
Draco chuckled, then stifled a yawn. He immediately looked horrified. “I am so sorry,” he said quickly.  
  
“Stop.” Harry shook his head. “With the shifts you’re working, it’s a miracle you’re still awake at all. What time are you done tomorrow?”  
  
“It’s another twelve,” Draco answered wearily. “I start at six and am done at six.”  
  
“And then you stop by Freddie’s House?”  
  
“Most days – yes.”  
  
“And then after, you go home and go to bed?”  
  
Draco gave him a faintly exasperated look. “Are we headed somewhere with this?”  
  
“Since everyone is doing so well, would you consider a change of routine tomorrow night?”  
  
Draco looked thoughtful. “What did you have in mind?”  
  
“Well, instead of just going home and going to sleep, I wonder if you’d consider letting me – make other plans.”  
  
“What kind of plans?”  
  
Harry lifted Draco’s hand to his mouth and nibbled on his index knuckle. “Something more fitting for Christmas Eve.”  
  
He saw a shadow pass through Draco’s eyes. “I haven’t celebrated Christmas Eve in years, Harry.”  
  
“Well, then maybe it’s time you started again.” Draco began to speak, but Harry held up his hand. “Nothing extravagant, I promise.”  
  
Draco hesitated a moment, then nodded. “As long as it’s simple,” he agreed.  
  
Harry smiled and pressed a quick kiss to his lips. “Simple. I promise.”  
  


~***~

  
  
Harry was absolutely flabbergasted when he went to Grimmauld Place after watching Draco Disapparate. Even after having spent nearly ten years in the magical world before he decided to disappear, Harry was always amazed by what could be accomplished with magic.  
  
The entry hall, which had always been dark and dank, had been cleaned and stripped of paintings and wallpaper, and was light and airy. The same could be said for the sitting room and the room where the Black Family tapestry had once hung. The walls were light colors, the floors gleamed, and the old, dark furniture had been replaced by a few good quality pieces in white or beige. He closed the door and looked around himself in wonder.  
  
“Winky?”  
  
There was a sharp ‘pop’ and standing before him was a tiny elf wearing a tiny dress with a daisy on the front. The last time he’d seen her had been during the aftermath of the Battle of Hogwarts; she’d been assisting Madam Pomfrey and in better shape physically than any time he’d seen her since her old master, Barty Crouch had died.  
  
“Hello, Harry Potter,” she said brightly.  
  
“Hi, Winky. Thank you so much. This place looks amazing.”  
  
“Winky is glad Harry Potter is liking it. Winky is thinking Kreacher is not liking it quite as much.”  
  
Harry could imagine how Kreacher felt about Winky fiddling with his mistress’ house. “I don’t imagine he is. He needs to remember it isn’t ‘his mistresses house’, but mine. I’m delighted. Have you started on the upper floors yet?”  
  
“Master Sirius’ old bedroom, and the connected bath is done, Mister Harry Potter, sir.”  
  
That’s exactly what Harry had wanted to hear. “Winky, I feel bad even asking after everything you’ve done, but I wouldn’t put it past Kreacher to bollocks it up intentionally just to pay me back for making changes to the house.”  
  
She nodded sagely. “Winky has always thought Harry Potter was a smart wizard.”  
  
“Thank you. Listen, Winky, if I asked you to do something else for me tomorrow, do you think you could?”  
  
“Winky will try, Harry Potter.”  
  
“Seeing all of this, I believe you can.”  
  
She preened proudly, and Harry told her his plan. When he was finished, a slow smile spread across her odd little face.  
  
“Oh, yes, Mr. Harry Potter, sir.” Winky nodded emphatically. “Winky can do that.”  
  
Harry smiled. “Brilliant.”  
  
  


~***~

  
  
Draco entered Freddie’s House at nearly eight the night of Christmas Eve, so weary he could scarcely put one foot in front of the other. There were always a rash of injuries sent to the Emergency department on holidays, and he’d dealt with everything from small toys that had found their way up a little nose to children whose families had thrown hexes in anger. His last case was a twelve year old whose ears looked as if they belonged on an elephant, and his brother whose feet had been exchanged so that his big toes were on the outside of his feet. He’d never seen that one before, and it had taken him hours to sort it out. Then he’d had the inevitable small mountain of paper work when he’d called Social Services in to report the drunken uncle responsible.  
  
When he opened the front door of the orphanage, he could smell the delectable odors of roasting meat and some sort of bread baking, and he could hear laughter drifting up the stairs from the kitchen. He trudged down the stairs and arrived at the kitchen door, and saw Harry seated on one side of the table, a cup of coffee between his palms, talking to George and Amelia. They looked relaxed and happy, and Draco sighed.  
  
“I’d sell my soul for a cup of coffee.”  
  
“Well, that certainly won’t be necessary.” George jumped to his feet, rushing to the stove. He returned with a steaming cup of coffee, which he handed to Draco with a slight bow. “Your coffee, sir.”  
  
“You can relax, George,” he said dryly. “I won’t hex you.”  
  
George grinned at him. “I knew you’d forgive me.”  
  
Harry looked at him over his shoulder. “He might have, but I haven’t. Like Moody used to say: Constant Vigilance, George.”  
  
George snorted. “You wouldn’t actually hurt me, Harry. You’d have to deal with my mother.”  
  
“Oh, I think Molly would understand, once I explained to her why.”  
  
George looked horrified. “You wouldn’t.”  
  
Harry’s grin was slow, and he shrugged negligently. Finally, when George was actively squirming, he said; “No.” He took a sip of his coffee. “But I would make things damned awkward for you.”  
  
“You’ve become a right wanker, Harry Potter.” He sat next to Amelia with a huff.  
  
“Oh, I’ve been one of those since I was about…” he looked thoughtful, “I think I was about twelve the first time.”  
  
Amelia gave a startled giggle and Draco sent him a quelling look as he sat beside him. “Potter, behave yourself. None of us want that image in our heads.”  
  
Harry returned his look with heated eyes, and it was as if Draco could hear him whispering ‘you do’. His face heated, and he heard George snort out a chuckle across from them.  
  
“Stop that, you two,” George said. “The last thing I need is you corrupting my staff.”  
  
Draco sniffed, but he didn’t push Harry’s hand away when he squeezed his thigh under the table.  
  
When he’d finished his coffee, Draco rose and picked up his bag, making his way toward the door. “How is the patient today, Amelia?”  
  
“Oh, she’s much better, Healer. She slept through the night and hasn’t run a fever in two days.”  
  
“Excellent.” He tossed back his shoulder-length hair and hooked some behind his ear. “I’ll just pop up and check on her, then stop in to check on Geordie’s elbow, just to make sure the swelling is down. The healing spell should have taken care of it, but sometimes there’s residual tenderness in the soft tissue…”  
  
“Healer,” George said, standing, “the kids are fine. Livie’s fine; she’s eating and sleeping and glomping onto our Harry the minute he goes near her. Geordie spent the afternoon outside having a snow ball fight with the other boys, no swelling in sight. I checked the elbow myself. For the first time in as long as I can remember, in a house of 22 people under the age of seventeen, no one is sick, or injured. Knock wood.” He rapped sharply on the table top. “Because I am quite certain this astonishing turn of events was precipitated by your brilliant skills, I am going to insist you take the evening off. You’re also off tomorrow, aren’t you? For Christmas?”  
  
  
Draco nodded, looking between Harry, who was sipping his coffee with enormous nonchalance, and George, who was smiling at him brightly.  
  
“Unless there’s an emergency and they need to call people in, yes. I worked today, the other trainee staff will work tomorrow.”  
  
“Good, good. So, why don’t you just go on along and do… whatever you might have planned for this evening? Not that I know what that is, understand. I just figured, it’s Christmas Eve, you must have plans that don’t include catering to a couple of kids.” He smiled ingratiatingly, and Draco turned and stared at Harry.  
  
He was sitting at the table, examining his fingernails. Draco looked between them. “I believe I’ve mentioned previously how much a resent being maneuvered, have I not?”  
  
Harry looked up, unperturbed. “I believe you have,” he said easily.  
  
“And – are you attempting to maneuver me, regardless?” He was proud of how frosty he sounded. He had a very difficult time remaining irritated while he looked at Harry, for some reason. It was ironic, when just looking at him used to make Draco furious.  
  
Harry lifted and drained his coffee cup, left it on the table, then stood and crossed to him. “No one is attempting to maneuver you. We are, however, attempting to give you a well deserved night off.” He held up his hands. “And no, it wasn’t my idea, it was George’s. I do, however, endorse it.” He shrugged. “You look tired, Draco. It’s not a criticism,” he said quickly when Draco’s eyes narrowed, “it’s a fact. You’ve been running your arse off.” Harry stepped closer, his hand encircling Draco’s arms just above his elbow. “So, the idea of an intimate dinner, and a couple of glasses of fine wine, doesn’t appeal to you?”  
  
“You’d know a fine wine, would you?” Draco said dryly, already beginning to feel himself giving in.  
  
Harry smiled slightly. “Not so much, no. But Hermione does, and she picked it out to go with the menu. Come on – what have you got to lose?”  
  
Draco looked into the level green eyes and defenses he spent years building began to crumble. If he hadn’t already been invested, he’d have been sure Harry Potter was a very dangerous man to his tenuous peace of mind. But because it was already far too late, the idea of a nice meal and a glass of wine sounded like a slice of heaven.  
  
“Nothing,” he murmured in answer to Harry’s question. “Nothing at all.”  
  
Harry’s smile was slow and held heated promise, and he offered his arm. “May I?”  
  
Draco looked down at it. “Where are we going?”  
  
One dark brow arched. “Trust me?”  
  
There was a weighted pause, then Draco sighed. “Gods helping me, I do.”  
  
Harry’s smile widened and Draco reached out and took his elbow. They disappeared from the kitchen with a soft ‘pop’.  
  


~***~

  
  
Harry wasn’t even remotely embarrassed to Apparate Draco into the front entry hall of Number 12. Candles and gas lamps were lit, providing a golden glow on the honey colored floors and darker paneled walls, and lovely art hung where the creepy dark pieces of the past had been. The furniture was of fine quality, most of which Winky had found in shops on Diagon Alley, and the air smelled faintly of lemon wax, onion soup and roast chicken. Kreacher, coming to terms with the state of his Mistresses old home and deciding if ‘Winky is doing it, it must be okay’, had acquiesced to Harry’s request that he cook dinner, and from the scents coming from the kitchen, he was doing a fine job, indeed.  
  
Draco paused on arrival, his eyes closed for a moment, inhaling deeply. “Something smells heavenly, and I’m starving.”  
  
“Would you like to eat, or get cleaned up first?”  
  
Draco raised a brow. “Cleaned up?”  
  
“I’m offering you a bath, Draco, that’s all. One you don’t have to share. Unless you want to.”  
  
Draco studied him, and Harry could see he was torn. Finally, he nodded. “I’d like a bath… very much,” he said with quiet dignity, and Harry gestured toward the stairs.  
  
“Why do I feel as if I’ve been here before?” Draco began the climb, his hand sliding on the gleaming wood of the bannister.  
  
“You might have been.” Harry fell into step at his side as they climbed the stairs. “Your mother was a Black, right?”  
  
Draco nodded, examining the spotless stairs and the stained glass window on the landing. It showed a bucolic image of a unicorn surrounded by fairies in a shady wood, but for some reason that didn’t seem -- right, somehow.  
  
“What used to be there?” he asked impulsively. “It wasn’t that.”  
  
Harry looked faintly amused. “You’re right, it wasn’t. It used to show Perseus slaying Medusa, with dripping gore, wriggling snakes and bodies turned to stone. Lovely image.”  
  
Draco gasped. He remembered that hideous window! He’d been about four, and it had terrified him. Especially when the Medusa had turned and sneered at him, the snakes on her head wriggling.  
  
“This is Aunt Wulburga’s house!”  
  
“Correction,” Harry said mildly, turning at the landing and continuing to head up. “This is  _my_  house, left to me by my godfather, Sirius Black.”  
  
“My mother used to speak about him,” Draco said, a wistful note in his voice. “She adored him as a girl, even though he did show the poor judgment to be sorted Gryffindor.” Harry gave him a wry look. “Not that there’s anything wrong with Gryffindor, I suppose.” He grimaced. “At least it wasn’t Hufflepuff, and it’s not like he had a choice.”  
  
Harry shrugged a bit sheepishly. “I did.”  
  
Draco shot him a startled look. “What?”  
  
“I said, ‘I did’. Have a choice where I was sorted.” Draco continued to stare over at him as they climbed. “The hat initially started to put me… somewhere else.”  
  
Draco halted on the stairs, his hands going to his hips. “Well, you can’t leave me there. Where?” He gave Harry a wicked grin. “Hufflepuff, right?”  
  
Harry rolled his eyes. “Not that there would be anything wrong with that, but no.”  
  
“Ravenclaw?” Draco demanded as they began to climb again. “No offense, Harry, but…”  
  
Harry snorted out a laugh. “Are you saying I’m not smart enough?”  
  
Draco looked a bit sheepish. “Uhm…”  
  
“Oh, stuff it, you tosser,” Harry laughed. “For your information, the hat considered putting me in Slytherin.”  
  
Again, Draco stopped dead on the stairs, this time staring with his mouth slightly open. “You’re having me on,” he said finally.  
  
“No, I’m telling you the truth.” Harry doggedly continued to climb. “It said I’d do well in Slytherin.” He refused to even think the hat’s other words.  _You could be great, you know. It’s all here in your head, and Slytherin could help you on the way to greatness…_.  
  
Draco shook his head. “I completely disagree. You’re entirely too noble and self-sacrificing to have done well in Slytherin. That bunch of snakes would have had you for lunch. Believe me, Slytherin isn’t the place for…”  
  
“Pediatric Healers?” Harry cut in. “Someone who’d work ninety hours a week, helping sick children, then volunteer for twenty more at an orphanage?” He saw Draco’s gobsmacked expression, and laughed as he reached the second floor.  
  
“Oh, shut up,” Draco muttered as he joined him, and Harry grinned as he slipped his arm around his waist and pulled him against his side. “It’s okay,” he murmured against Draco’s temple. “Your secret is safe with me.”  
  
“You’re dangerously unbalanced,” Draco mumbled, and Harry smiled against his skin.  
  
He led Draco down the hall and opened the door, suddenly nervous. He wondered if Draco would find it presumptuous that he’d brought him straight up to his bedroom…  
  
Sirius’ old room took up one entire corner of the second floor, with a walk in closet, and an enormous en-suite. A massive, ornately carved four poster sat against the far wall, all of the bedding white and pale teal. There were two velvet covered armchairs facing the fireplace within which burned a warming fire, and a huge love seat piled high with pillows and surrounded by bookshelves took up the center of one wall. Through two floor to ceiling windows that flanked the bed it was clear to see it was snowing again, but the room itself was warm and inviting, so completely unlike the way it looked before, ransacked and deserted, Harry thought if Winky desired it he’d purchase an entire shop full of clothes for her. Candles floated around the room, providing a warming glow, and Harry turned to look hesitantly into Draco’s eyes, almost afraid of what he’d find there.  
  
He was surprised by the pleasure reflected in the grey eyes.  
  
“Gods, this is beautiful, Harry,” he breathed almost reverently, and Harry smiled.  
  
“Wait until you see the en-suite.”  
  
He took Draco’s hand with the air of a small child with something he thought wonderful to share, and pulled him over to the doorway, pushing open the door. The tub, encased in white marble squares next to the walk in shower, was filled to the brim with fragrant hot water and bubbles, and candles flickered on every surface. There was a small crystal vase in the far corner holding reddish-gold calla lilies, a flute of champagne and a small dish of truffles, and on the wall hung a thick white velour robe under which sat a pair of white spa slippers. It was perfect, and Harry sent up another silent thanks for the remarkable magic that was able to be performed by house elves.  
  
“Oh,” Draco said with a soft moan. “Is that for me?”  
  
“Yes, it is.”  
  
Harry led him into the bathroom, turned him and slowly began to unfasten the front of his mint green robes. Draco looked wearily into his eyes and tried for a sensual smile. “Mr. Potter, are you planning to have your wicked way with me?”  
  
Harry returned the smile. “Maybe later. For now, I just want you to get in the tub,” he pushed the robes from Draco’s shoulders and went to work on the waistband of his slacks, “and soak the sore muscles away.”  
  
Draco closed his eyes on a grateful sigh. “That sounds heavenly.”  
  
“Good.”  
  
Harry urged him to step out of his trousers and pants, going down onto one knee to remove his half boots and black socks. While he unzipped the boots and lifted each foot to slip them off, Draco’s long fingers found their way into Harry’s tousled hair.  
  
“Now, this position holds promise,” he purred, and Harry glanced up, realizing that the long tail of Draco’s shirt was the only thing separating Harry from his cock. He carefully rolled the black socks and put them in Draco’s boots, setting them aside, before he began to unbutton the white shirt from the bottom, up. When the shirt was open to the center of his chest, Harry parted the sides, taking in the lovely uncut prick and soft, blond curls at its base. He also noticed for all the warm promise in Draco’s eyes, he wasn’t aroused. Harry nuzzled the organ with his cheek and inhaled the scents of sweat and musk and Draco, then rose smoothly to his feet. He finished unbuttoning the shirt and pushed it from his shoulders.  
  
He couldn’t help but notice the faint, criss-crossing lines that marred the pale torso, and he touched them regretfully. Draco had to know by now Harry hadn’t known what the spell did, in the same way Harry believed he hadn’t really meant to  _Crucio_  him. He looked into the wide, waiting eyes, running his fingertips over the pattern of scars, then leaned in and kissed Draco gently, trying to pour everything into the gesture; his regret, his apology, his hope they’d overcome all of the crap that had cluttered their past. Draco lifted one hand and cupped Harry’s cheek, and in the touch was Draco’s answer; regrets acknowledged, apology accepted, hopes shared.  
  
Harry pulled back far enough to lean his forehead against Draco’s, running his hands over the square shoulders, down the slender arms, fingers reaching and linking.  
  
“You should get in and soak,” he whispered. “You’ll feel better.”  
  
“You aren’t joining me?”  
  
Harry smiled slightly as he took a regretful step back. “Maybe in a few minutes. I have something to do first.”  
  
“All right.”  
  
Draco stepped into the surprisingly deep tub, groaning in a sound of pleasure that was so distinctly sexual Harry felt a stirring in his groin. Draco settled into the scented water and leaned back against the sloped side of the tub with a grateful sigh. “Oh, sweet Merlin, this is heaven,” he groaned, and Harry smiled.  
  
“You enjoy. I’ll be back in a moment.” He turned to go.  
  
“Harry.”  
  
He stopped and turned back and found Draco studying him, his eyes full.  
  
“Thank you. No one has ever…” Draco bit his lower lip.  
  
Harry smiled. “Then it’s far past time.”  
  
Draco gave him a sweet, soft smile, and closed his eyes.  
  
When Harry walked back into the bedroom, he found a small table had been set up between the chairs in front of the fire, and a peek beneath covered dishes showed the chicken and potatoes, the onion soup, and chocolate mousse. A brut of champagne was on ice, and two goblets sat next to the bone china plates. It was perfect, and he smiled, rubbing his hands together in satisfaction.  
  
He walked back into the bath, preparing to pull his jumper off over his head, and stopped with his arms crossed and his hands gripping the hem, staring.  
  
Draco was lying back in the corner of the tub, his head back, his hair brushing the bubbles around his shoulders. He was holding the champagne glass in his hand, his eyes were closed, his long lashes laying on his slightly heat flushed cheeks, and he was breathing deeply in a sound sleep.  
  
Harry smiled fondly, settling on the thick rug next to the tub. He carefully removed the glass from the long fingers and took a sip, set it aside, then removed his own boots before crossing his legs beneath him. Settling his arms and laying his cheek on top of them, he leaned on the rim of the tub, perfectly content for the time being to watch Draco sleep.


	25. And To All A Good Night!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt used in the Epilogue (later in this part)

Draco came awake with a start and he jerked upright, warm water sloshing around his chest and onto the rim of the tub.  
  
“Easy.”  
  
The deep voice was soothing, the hand on his arm more so.  
  
Draco blinked and saw Harry sitting on the floor next to the tub, smiling at him.  
  
“I fell asleep,” he said unnecessarily.  
  
“You did.”  
  
“Why didn’t you wake me?”  
  
“Because you’re tired.”  
  
Draco rolled his eyes. “Idiot. Yes, I’m tired. But so are you.”  
  
Harry shook his head. “Not really. Not like you are. But then, I’m not trying to work a sixty hour week and take care of a bunch of kids in an orphanage, too.”  
  
Draco reached up and ran an unsteady hand through his hair, pulling it damply off of his face. “It’s not so altruistic as that.”  
  
“Isn’t it?”  
  
Draco rolled his eyes. “It’s my job, Harry.”  
  
“Mmm.” Harry pushed to his feet, looking down at him. “Are you hungry?”  
  
Draco was about to answer when his stomach did it for him, grumbling loudly.  
  
“Apparently so. Winky brought dinner into the bedroom, if you’re interested.”  
  
“It would be somewhat ridiculous at this point to deny it.”  
  
“Somewhat.” Harry grinned at him. “Why don’t you go ahead and get started while I rinse off.”  
  
Draco stood, letting the water cascade down his body, enjoying the heat in Harry’s eyes as he watched him. He pulled the stopper from the tub, then pulled a thick white towel from the bar, sighing gratefully when he found it warm. “I’m in love with this bathroom, Harry.”  
  
“I think I just might be, too.” His smile made it clear he was talking about more than the bathroom, and Draco’s heart began to pound. The new, harder beat remained as Harry pulled his jumper off over his head and Draco had his first unencumbered view of Harry’s body.  
  
He wasn’t one to salivate over muscles. He had some of his own, thanks very much. But there definitely was a difference, and he’d be lying if he didn’t admit to admiring the ‘v’ shape of Harry’s upper body, the firm pecs, the broad shoulders, the flat stomach with its double row of muscles. Draco’s eyes were also drawn to the slender line of dark hair that grew south from his navel, and as he unfastened his trousers, the lovely bulge of muscle above each pronounced hip. Physical labor had certainly agreed with Harry Potter, and even as tired as he was his body purred with approval. When Harry pushed his slacks down without a hint of shyness and stepped out of them, Draco nearly sighed in appreciation. He had a lovely cock, he mused, and a lovely dark nest of curls around it. Then he turned to open the shower door, and the unencumbered view of his taut, firm arse loosened the sigh he’d earlier managed to hold back.  
  
Harry turned, one brow arched, and Draco realized he’d heard him. He felt his cheeks heat.  
  
“You all right?” Harry asked.  
  
“I’m fine,” Draco responded, perhaps too quickly. “It’s just… well.” No use lying, he thought. “You’re really quite lovely to look at, aren’t you?”  
  
Harry’s face flushed even as he smiled, and Draco felt a bit better about what he was sure were his own red cheeks.  
  
“Thanks.” Harry smiled at him shyly, and Draco was completely charmed by a naked Harry Potter looking shy. “Allow me to return the compliment.”  
  
Draco dropped into a courtly bow, which made Harry’s smile widen. He could only imagine how ridiculous he looked, bowing naked, a towel in his hand.  
  
“The food smells great, by the way.”  
  
“Excellent.” Draco dried his hair quickly, then reached for one of the two white bathrobes that hung outside the shower door. He accepted the soft kiss Harry gave him as he paused in the opening, steam from the hot water rolling past him into the room. When Harry tried to pull him gently into the shower with him, Draco laughed and pressed his hand into the middle of his chest. “If I get in there with you, we’ll never eat.”  
  
His stomach growled again as if in protest.  
  
“Can’t have that. Go and eat then,” Harry said, smiling. “And stop distracting me.” He stepped into the shower and closed the door before Draco could come up with a pithy response.  
  
Draco slipped into the soft robe and ran a comb through his hair, stepping into the provided slippers before walking out into the dimly lit bedroom. There was a table set up near the fire, and he smiled in approval when he saw the bottle of champagne on ice.  
  
The room was as nice as any hotel room he’d ever stayed in, and he was amazed that it was Potter’s  _home_. Here was another reason for Harry to never, ever, see where he lived, he thought wryly, and took the champagne from the ice. He’d been removing the corks from champagne bottles since he’d been six years old, and he masterfully stripped the foil back and found his wand, tapping it against the neck of the bottle. The cork slipped free with a soft ‘pop’. His father had taught him that, and how to make the sound as soft or as loud as he wanted. It was perhaps one of the only lessons of value he’d been responsible for teaching him. Draco’s mouth twisted, but he pushed the thought from him. The last thing he wanted to think about tonight was his father.  
  
He lifted one of the covers from the delectable smelling food, and found two bowls of onion soup and some soft white rolls. He poured the champagne into the offered flutes, his thought to wait until Harry joined him, but he was so hungry he took one of the bowls and tucked in, instead. He was already half way into the succulent roast beef, potatoes and carrots when Harry wandered into the room trailed by fragrant steam.  
  
Draco swallowed the bite he’d just shoveled into his mouth. “I’m sorry. I was going to wait, but…”  
  
Harry shook his head, and the damp black strands caught the light from the fire. “Don’t apologize; I told you to eat.” He smiled and sat across from him, taking a bowl of soup.  
  
Draco wanted, more than anything, to have sex with Harry in that gorgeous big bed until dawn started to lighten the sky. It was really all he wanted for Christmas. But as his stomach filled and the excellent champagne made his muscles go limp, a sweet lassitude spread through him. The little nap he’d taken in the tub had been lovely, but it wasn’t much against bone deep exhaustion. He felt his eyelids growing heavy, and fought the urge to yawn but he honestly thought he was doing pretty well pretending not to be tired.  
  
That was, until he jerked slightly when a hand gently removed a roll from his hand. “Hmm?”  
  
Harry gave him a rueful smile and stood. “Come along, you.” He held out his hand, and mystified, Draco slipped his into it. Harry pulled him to his feet, and led him to the bed, tossing aside decorative pillows and pulling down the comforter. Harry turned and tugged him closer, untying the belt of the robe and letting it slip to the floor. Draco lifted his arms languidly around Harry’s neck and pulled him in to kiss him, a kiss Harry returned until Draco had to break it to yawn.  
  
“Oh, Gods!” Draco said, embarrassed, and Harry chuckled. He pressed his forehead to Harry’s collarbone. “Aren’t you glad you invited me to stay the night?”  
  
“I am, actually.” Harry held him close for a moment, running his hands over Draco’s back, enjoying the feeling of smooth skin over muscle and bone. “There’s more to it than just sex, you know.”  
  
Draco went still in his embrace. “But I like sex.”  
  
Harry laughed at his petulant sound. “Believe me, so do I. But I can wait until you aren’t too tired to enjoy it.”  
  
“I’d enjoy it.”  
  
“You’ll enjoy it more when you’ve slept a bit. In you go.” Harry held the blankets back until Draco slipped beneath them, then pulled them up to his neck. Draco settled into the mattress with a deep, guttural moan.  
  
“A mattress with no lumps,” he muttered, rolling onto his side and pulling one of the thick pillows under his head. “Heaven.”  
  
Harry ran his hand over the still damp blond hair, then straightened. “Enjoy.”  
  
Draco’s hand snaked out and caught his wrist. “Lay with me?”  
  
Harry looked into the wide grey eyes and disregarded the allure of the roast beef under the cover near the fire, and slipped out of the white bathrobe, allowing it to pool on top of Draco’s before he slipped beneath the blankets. Draco pressed against him with a soft, pleased sigh and Harry felt a soul deep surge of satisfaction at the feeling of all of the warm, smooth skin. His body responded immediately, and he rolled over, pressing his back against Draco’s chest, urging his erection to cool its jets for a while. Draco wrapped his arms around him and rested his chin on his shoulder.  
  
“This is perfect,” he murmured against Harry’s ear. “Thank you.”  
  
Harry spread his hands on Draco’s arms and squeezed them. “You’re welcome.”  
  
The light of the fire, flickering warmly against his closed eyelids, and the feel of Draco’s soft breath against his cheek, lulled Harry to sleep more quickly than he imagined possible.  
  


~***~

  
  
Draco woke, warm and full, on a mattress so perfect beneath blankets so soft that he was certain he must still be dreaming, and he burrowed deeper, not wanting the dream to end. But even as sleep slipped away, the mattress and blankets remained, as did the solid body in his arms. And then he remembered.  
  
Harry. He was at Harry’s. And unless he missed his guess – he lifted his head and looked toward the window, the source of the cool blue light filling the large room – it was Christmas morning. A slow smile pulled sleepily at his lips as he pressed himself more fully against the wide, strong back, his morning erection finding its way to the crease between taut round arse cheeks. Now, wasn’t that a lovely turn of events? He pressed a kiss to the back of a fragrant neck beneath black curls, and tightened his embrace. Harry made a sleepy sound, and Draco stroked a long slender hand over his chest.  
  
“Merry Christmas.”  
  


~***~

  
  
“Merry Christmas.”  
  
Harry stilled, then smiled slowly. The voice was husky against his ear, and a warm hand smoothed over his chest before it paused, a thumb idly stroking one of his nipples. His nipples were sensitive and it stiffened, and he groaned, pressing back into the body behind him, becoming aware of the hard cock pressed between his arse cheeks for the first time.  
  
“Merry Christmas to you,” he said. He moved his hips. “Is this my present?”  
  
Draco chuckled against his ear and rolled his hips forward. “I was rather thinking this -- ” he stroked his other hand over Harry’s arse cheek, “ – was mine.”  
  
“It is, if that’s what you want.”  
  
Draco went still. “Really?”  
  
“Hmhm.”  
  
Draco opened his mouth on Harry’s shoulder, nibbling, humming his approval into his skin.  
  
Harry didn’t bottom much; he’d never really enjoyed it. His own words had taken him a bit by surprise. But for some reason, the idea of having Draco inside of him made his cock go instantly almost painfully hard, and he rolled his hips back again, the invitation unmistakable. And Draco was nothing if not perceptive.  
  
Harry wasn’t inexperienced by any stretch of the imagination; once he’d acknowledged to himself he preferred men he’d wasted no time losing his virginity and trying out the buffet of sexual activities each of his many partners had to offer. Some were more experienced than others, some more skilled; he’d found something of merit in each and every one of them. And he’d become very skilled himself. Once he’d settled on a more dominant role, he knew just how to touch his partners to bring them the ultimate enjoyment, just what to do with his hands, his mouth, his cock.  
  
But now, lying under the touch of Draco’s hands and mouth, he felt almost as if he’d never done any of it, and it gradually dawned on him what the difference was; he hadn’t felt for any of them what he felt now. He was in love, he knew it, and his heart began to race even as his eyes began to sting. By the time Draco had skillfully readied him and was looming above him, slowly pressing inside, the stretch and burn mingled with the awe filling his chest and he clenched his eyes shut, tears slipping down his temples and into his hair.  
  
“Harry?” Draco cupped his cheek in one hand, his thumb catching a tear. “Gods, am I hurting you?”  
  
Harry shook his head, biting his lower lip. “That isn’t it,” he said after a moment, his voice tight.  
  
Draco was hovering, unmoving, above him. “Then what is it?”  
  
Harry opened his eyes and looked up into the grey ones so close above his. “Draco, I – ”  
  
“What?” Draco prompted when he didn’t finish his sentence.  
  
Harry swallowed heavily. “I know it’s too soon and I know we’ve just begun this, but – I think I’m in love with you,” he finally blurted. “I think I have been for a very long time.”  
  
Draco searched his face, smiling slowly. “Oh, thank Merlin,” he whispered. “I was starting to feel like I might be the only one who felt that way.”  
  
Harry’s heart slammed hard into his ribs, and he lifted his legs, tightening them around Draco’s waist. It caused Draco’s cock to press firmly against his prostate, and heat and delight scorched a path through his pelvis and into his cock, which ached. He arched and moaned. “Draco,” he said, beseeching. “Please.”  
  
It was apparently what he’d been waiting for, because Draco pulled back and thrust forward, and Harry let his head fall back on a guttural groan. He felt every nerve ending in his arse spark and react, clenching down. This made Draco moan, then begin to move even faster, harder. The springs sang as the bed rocked.  
  
Harry’s cock throbbed, and the prolonged massage of his prostate made his toes clench and his eyes roll up. It wasn’t long before he was shaking, his body stiffening. “I’m going to come,” he gasped out.  
  
“Good,” Draco said breathlessly. “Good. Come on, then.”  
  
And Harry came, his cock untouched, spurting between them. The hard clench of his sphincter as his orgasm rolled through him pushed Draco over the edge as well, and he pounded into him hard, both of them crying out as the bed jerked and the headboard slammed into the wall. Draco finally stiffened and then collapsed on top of him, and they spent several minutes just clutching one another, trying to remember how to breathe.  
  
Finally Draco carefully withdrew and rolled to Harry’s side, pulling him with him and into his arms. Harry felt boneless, and his head lolled onto Draco’s chest. He could hear his heart racing, and he smiled languidly.  
  
“Well, that was eventful,” he said. “First time I’ve bottomed in five years.”  
  
Draco’s hand, which had been stroking his head, stilled. “Seriously?”  
  
“Uh huh.”  
  
“Why?”  
  
“Because I haven’t wanted to.”  
  
“No, I meant – why now?”  
  
Harry lifted his head and looked into Draco’s eyes, to find them wide, watching him.  
  
“Because, I wanted to. And because I trust you. You were brilliant, by the way.”  
  
Draco’s mouth fell open slightly, and Harry leveraged himself up and kissed his startled lips. When he eventually rested his head back on Draco’s chest, it was several seconds before he spoke.  
  
“Of course I was brilliant,” Draco finally said. “Just don’t get used to it. I like bottoming, too.”  
  
Harry snorted. “I’m sure we can come up with an equitable solution that will work for both of us.”  
  
Draco yanked playfully on a curl, then went back to methodically carding his fingers through the damp strands. Harry didn’t say anything else for several minutes, but he knew there was one thing, at least, that it was pressing they speak about.  
  
“Draco,” he finally said tentatively, “before we go too much further with this, there’s something you should probably know…”  
  
“You plan to adopt Olivia?”  
  
Harry’s head jerked up and he stared into Draco’s amused eyes. “How did you know that?”  
  
“I have eyes, Harry. I can see how much you’ve come to love her.”  
  
Harry searched his face. “And you don’t mind?”  
  
Draco exhaled. “It’s not my place to mind.”  
  
“But your opinion on this matters to me,” Harry said, still studying the expressive eyes. “I want to do it, but I don’t want – I don’t want it to impact what we’ve just started.”  
  
Draco’s eyes darkened. “Of course, it’s going to impact it, Harry.” Harry’s heart sank. “She’s a child; that’s a huge step. It’s going to impact every part of your life.” Harry closed his eyes and sighed. Moments later, he felt Draco’s fingers on his cheek. “Look at me,” Draco ordered softly, and Harry forced his eyes open again. Draco smiled gently. “But it doesn’t necessarily follow that the impact will be negative. She needs you, but more importantly, I think you need her. And what kind of a man would I be to get in the way of that?”  
  
Harry turned his face and pressed his lips to the center of Draco’s palm, feeling more grateful than he could ever remember feeling in his life.

 

**Epilogue**

 

Harry heard the front door open and then slam closed.  
  
“Daddy?”  
  
The light, musical voice echoed through the large house, and Harry smiled.  
  
“Kitchen,” he called. He heard rapid footsteps down the stairs, and then Olivia appeared in the kitchen doorway. Harry stood and opened his arms, and she flew into them. He held her tight against his chest, marveling anew at how much she’d grown just since the beginning of term. He’d done it every year she’d been at Hogwarts. Now she was fourteen, and her head tucked neatly under his chin. “You’re so tall.”  
  
She leaned back and smiled, her face so lovely it made his throat ache. “You always say that.” She kissed him quickly and took a step back, pulling her green and silver knit hat from her head. She’d changed out of her robes on the train, but the hat went with her everywhere, so proud was she of being in her Father’s old house.  
  
“And it’s always true.”  
  
She bent and bussed the baby who was sitting in the high chair on his porridge covered cheek. “Hi, Benji baby, how’s my boy?”  
  
The little boy crowed, reaching out gummy hands. She took a step back with a bright laugh.  
  
“Oh no, not until you’re cleaned up.”  
  
“My turn, my turn!”  
  
The little girl with dark blonde hair and bright blue eyes held up her arms, and Olivia crossed to her, picking her up and kissing her soundly before resting her on her hip. “How are you, Princess Amadala?”  
  
The little girl rolled her eyes. “Not Amadala.”  
  
“No?” Olivia turned to look at Harry, who had picked up a cloth and was cleaning a squirmy Benji’s face.  
  
“Barbie this week,” he muttered.  
  
Olivia made a face. “Barbie? That mad doll who lives to be ‘madly in love’ with Ken?”  
  
“No Ken!” Carolyn said emphatically, curls bouncing. “Midge!”  
  
“Who’s Midge?”  
  
“I believe that’s her best female friend,” Harry answered wryly. Olivia giggled.  
  
“Well, that’ll be you and Dad’s influence, I’m thinking.”  
  
Harry shot her a dry look, and she just laughed. “The snow give you much trouble?” It had started just after dawn, and for once it had nothing to do with the Ministry’s weather division.  
  
“Nope. Dad just cast an umbrella charm once we were in Diagon. The boys love the snow, you know that.”  
  
“Where are the boys?” Harry asked, lifting Benji and setting him on his feet, holding on to him long enough to make sure he was steady.  
  
“With Dad, bringing in the bags. Oh my God, is he walking?”  
  
Benji proudly took several steps until he was clinging to her jeans. “As you can see,” Harry answered, wiping down the tray of the high chair, “he is.”  
  
“Benja – man!” She bent and lifted Benji onto her other hip, nuzzling his cheek. He laughed in delight. “He’s growing up too fast!”  
  
Harry watched her fondly. “They all do.”  
  
“Auntie Hermione is bringing Thai by later.”  
  
“Ah, bless her,” Harry said with a relieved sigh. “Draco will be so happy. He wasn’t much looking forward to shepherds pie.”  
  
“You’ll bring him around eventually.”  
  
“After twelve years, my love, I somehow doubt it.”  
  
“Besides, Rose wants to show Dad her gobstones collection and Hugo wants to talk Quidditch with  _you_. I told him Dad was a seeker, too, but…”  
  
Harry grinned. “Ah, but he was the  _Slytherin_  seeker.”  
  
One of her dark brows arched. “Meaning?”  
  
“Gryffindor secret,” he teased. “Can’t tell you.”  
  
Olivia laughed. “You’re so full of it!”  
  
“You’re finally coming around to my way of thinking, I see.”  
  
Draco swept through the door, pulling his dark fur hat from his fair hair and slipping his full length dark cloak from over his Healers robes. He’d had a consultation that morning at the hospital. As Chief Resident of the Paediatric Service, he was almost always called in on the more complicated cases. Twins Fred and George were right behind him, rushing to Harry, pink cheeks flushed and white blond hair mussed. It was their first year at Hogwarts, and they both hugged him, talking a mile a minute. “One at a time,” he laughed, kissing first one, then the other.  
  
“Dad, we’re –,” one began  
  
“Starving.” The other finished.  
  
“Are there any –,”  
  
“ – biscuits?”  
  
“Not until those trunks are up the stairs,” Draco said firmly. They raced out as quickly as they’d raced in, no further apart now than they’d been when they’d been found on the front steps of Freddie’s House, six weeks old, no identification, and suffering from pneumonia and dehydration. They’d been sick for a long time, and then, just like the others, they’d been theirs.  
  
Harry had gone to work at the Orphanage full time immediately following his first Christmas home. He helped with the children, but mostly he used the publicity surrounding his return to help solicit funds to make sure their charges got everything they needed, and that the orphanage could expand to take in more staff and more children.  
  
The publicity surrounding his relationship with Draco didn’t receive as much positive attention, but neither of them cared. They scandalized the wizarding world by adopting little Olivia right before their spring wedding. By the time they had added Fred, George, Carolyn and Benjamin, most in the wizarding world had ceased to find their relationship cause for comment, let alone scandal. Things were, gradually, changing for the better.  
  
“Hello, midgets.” Draco paused to kiss both Benji and Caro on the cheeks. He bussed Olivia’s cheek, as well. “No longer Midget, nice to see you.”  
  
She grinned. “Dad, you picked me up at the station.”  
  
“Did I?” He winked at Harry. “That’s what old age will do to you; you can’t recognize your own children.”  
  
She smiled. “That’s because every child either of you lays your eyes one becomes  _your_  child.” She set the little ones on the floor, and grabbed their hands. “Come along, you two. I have presents for you in my trunk.”  
  
“Presents!” Five year old Caro cried, running for the stairs. Benji went to follow her and promptly tripped over his own feet, falling hard on his tummy. He began to cry, and Harry and Draco both started toward him.  
  
“I’ve got it,” Olivia said, bending and picking him up. “All right, Benji – man? Nothing battered but your pride? Come along, then.”  
  
She swept out of the room, leaving blessed silence behind her.  
  
“Whose idea was it that we bring home this many urchins?” Draco asked with a long suffering sigh.  
  
“Why, that would be yours, Healer Malfoy,” Harry answered. “’Just one more, Harry. This one has ‘insert the illness’ and will be too old for adoption by the time they’re fully healed.”  
  
Draco colored. “Well, they would have been.”  
  
“All of them.”  
  
“Well, maybe not all of them.”  
  
Harry crossed to him, reaching up and pushing his fringe from his light colored eyes. “I wouldn’t trade a one of them, something you know only too well.”  
  
“I do.” Draco slipped his arms around Harry’s waist and pulled him against his body. “Still want to keep me, too?”  
  
“Oh, yes.” Harry smiled. “I’m afraid you’re stuck with me.”  
  
“Good.”  
  
Draco kissed him, slowly, sweetly, and they were involved enough they didn’t hear the twins return until they were right outside of the door.  
  
“Oh, blech!” one of them shouted. “They’s kissin.”  
  
“Well, tell them to stop,” they heard Hermione say in amusement from the top of the stairs. “I have the Thai, and no one else needs to see that.”  
  
Draco leaned back. “Speaking of something no one needs to see!” Draco shouted. “You married the one with the freckled –,”  
  
“Draco!”  
  
“Freckled what, Dad?” “Yeah, what?” the twins said in unison.  
  
Harry pressed his forehead to Draco’s shoulder, and laughed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Merry Christmas, all, and a very Happy New Year! I love you all!!**


End file.
